Page 37 of Ms. Lead

However, when we step inside, all comparisons to the word ‘normal’ go right out the window. The home is gorgeous. We enter through a small walkway into a large kitchen that opens to a dining area and a great room with tall cathedral ceilings and a wall of windows. There is a panoramic view of the lake beyond, but with the darkness outside, I can only see vague outlines of the horizon in the dim moonlight. A comfortable-looking sectional sofa faces the windows, and a wood stove is in the corner.

The minimalist décor here has a different feel than Bianca’s near-empty flat. Here it’s intentional and fits the large space, shifting the focus to its grand architecture and not the lack of furniture.

“Bianca, this is impressive. If I might ask, why don’t you make this your permanent home?” I drop my overnight bag and turn in a circle in the middle of the great room.

“And do what, exactly?” She drops her own bag but watches me from the kitchen. “There’s not really a lot for me to do here. Plus, I like my job.”

“The writing I could do here….” I say, picturing myself tapping away at my laptop while enjoying the view, a steaming mug of tea at the ready, not a care in the world, and able to live in peace and solitude. It’s a writer’s dream retreat. “So, can I ask why you have this home if it’s only for the weekends? Do you rent it out during the week or something?” The investigator in me is dying to know the answer to this. I’ve always been too curious for my own good. At least, that’s what my mother always told me.

“It’s actually a family home. It was our grandparent’s first and then has been passed down to Enzo and me. My grandfather used to tell us that Frank Sinatra lived next door when he first built this house and would have huge parties with A-list Hollywood actors coming here for the weekend.”

She kicks her shoes off and opens the fridge, pulling out a bottle of wine. I’ve noticed that she likes to be barefoot as much as possible, and it’s one of those idiosyncrasies that makes her Bianca. I love that she is comfortable enough around me to let her hair down, both literally and figuratively.

“That sounds like a whole book in itself.”

“Oh, the stories we would hear. My grandfather was a contractor and built a lot of the homes along the north shore during the first building boom in the late 1950s. That’s how we got this house. My grandfather actually helped to build this with his own hands. It’s been updated over the years, but the bones are his.” She gets a dreamy, faraway look in her eyes as she talks about her family. They obviously mean a lot to her. “Do you want some wine?”

“No, thank you.”

She eyes me curiously for a moment. “You don’t drink, do you?”

“I do not.” I shake my head, trying to hide my disappointment. I would love nothing more than to have a glass of wine with her right now.

“Is that an MS thing?”

“For me, it is, yes.”

“Do you mind moving to the question portion of the weekend? I’d like to get it over with.”

She pours me a glass of water, and a glass of wine for herself, and brings them to the great room, making herself comfortable on the sofa. I sit next to her but don’t make myself as comfortable.

I feel the need to brace myself for the oncoming questions. I’m still new to this whole ‘being open’ about everything wrong with me.

I exhale a deep breath. “Have at it.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

BIANCA

GOLD

I want to be careful with Oliver. I don’t want this to become a third-degree interview. He’s told me he has the relapsing-remitting type of MS and to research that this week. It turns out that my friend, who is the chef at The Library where we ate recently, also has that type of MS, so I was able to pick her brain throughout the week pretty extensively. That being said, she did warn me that everyone’s experience with MS is different, and men especially can have more severe symptoms.

I grab Oliver’s hand and squeeze it slightly because I can tell he’s nervous. I don’t want to make this more challenging for him than it needs to be.

“Relax, Oliver,” I say, trying to reassure him that everything will be fine no matter what happens.

“I’m relaxed,” he mumbles. And I can’t help but laugh because he is far from relaxed.

“Oh, ok then. Alright, I’m diving in. Prepare yourself.” He makes to square his shoulders and straightens his back in response. “But first, give me a safe word.”

He cocks his head at me. “A safe word? As in…”

“As in, the conversation has gone far enough, and you just don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

He stares at me for a minute, and I can’t read him at all. Then, his mouth quirks into a smile. “You’re amazing.”

“Is that your safe word?” I smile back. It would be kind of cool if it is.

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