Page 14 of Lorenzo

“This is your bedroom,” he says, opening the door onto a room that feels more like a stage set than a place anyone has ever slept.

The bed is enormous, dressed in white linen so crisp it might never have been touched. Like elsewhere in the apartment, no exterior walls here. Just floor-to-ceiling windows.

“And here is your bathroom,” he says, opening the door onto a room you’d expect to see in a glossy design magazine.

A deep soaking tub sits at the center like a piece of sculpture, the kind you lower yourself into slowly.

Even dramatically, especially if your lover is watching.

The shower is enclosed in seamless glass, large enough for a party if you’re into those kinds of things.

Every surface is white marble veined faintly with grey, cool and unblemished as fresh snow.

When I exit, I spot the half-open door to what looks to be an identical bathroom.

“What’s that? Another bathroom?”

“This was designed as a ‘his and hers’ master suite,” he says. “Two bathrooms, identical.”

Okay, I think to myself. Welcome to the eccentric rich people of Manhattan.

Ciro gestures toward yet another door.

“I’ve put your suitcase in your closet. If you’d like any help changing into your wedding dress, please don’t hesitate to call for me.”

I look inside the closet. It’s enormous. Like a small room of its own.

“I won’t be wearing a wedding dress, but thanks. Tell me this. Where is Mr. Ricci’s bedroom?”

“Again,” Ciro says patiently. “I’ll refer you to Mr. Ricci for an answer. But I assure you, this is the only bedroom in the apartment. I’ll leave you alone now to dress.”

What?! Only one bedroom? Only one bed?

The agreement said nothing about this!

I look at the gigantic bed, bigger and wider than any bed I’ve ever seen.

The sooner I meet this Mr. Ricci and settle this thing, the better.

I open my suitcase and take out my great aunt’s tweed suit.

It’s a genuine Christian Dior creation from the 1940s. Still in one piece, and oddly still fashionable nearly a century later.

Though it does smell of mothballs and her signature Chanel #5 perfume.

I slip it on, then glance at myself in the mirror and nod with satisfaction.

The thick boxy jacket. The hemline dropping below my knees.

It’s all so right.

On so many different levels.

If it’s true this Lorenzo Ricci character thinks of me as a dowdy Bostonian, so be it.

That’s exactly what he’ll get.

Right down to Aunt Jane’s flat shoes, made for her extra-wide feet.