2019-10-03 - End of Life Arrangements

It was an old painting, but its colors remained as vibrant and fresh from the day it was painted; the benefit, in the end, of having come from wealth. It allowed her to afford the exorbitant bills necessary to maintain the antiques that have been left to her family's keeping, including this one.

The depiction of the old Victorian mansion hung above the mantlepiece of a cavernous fireplace, located in what used to be her father's study and appropriated for her use within the last few decades as the matriarch of the family fortune. It was extraneous, at best, California didn't really have much by way of extreme temperatures, not like other parts of the world, but she wasn't getting any younger; Time and Memory continued to weigh heavily on her bones, liable to shackle her to the floor. In the twilight of her years, she couldn't help herself, these days, especially, when doctor visits have become constant - part of the daily routine, now.

Faded gray eyes grew distant as she looked at the painting. She hadn't set foot in it in years, not since the Autumn of her eighteenth year and that had been decades ago. Almost another lifetime. She had been too frightened to step foot in it ever since.

"Missus Levenson?"

She turned, slowly, her walking stick gripped on one hand to regard the younger man standing by her open doorway, well into his sixties, a file folder in his hand and dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit. John Marlowe had been her personal assistant for years and like much in the way of such relationships typically went, had become her most trusted confidant throughout the course of his service. He was efficient, knew her mind and tastes as well as anyone could and at the moment, the only person who knew of her terminal diagnosis. He had spent the last month gradually putting her affairs in order - always the first to know, and always the first to act.

She hadn't even told the rest of the family yet.

He was also straightforward. His lined face wreathed with concern, one that he wouldn't dare show anyone but her, he shut the doors securely behind him before he moved to the large, heavy oak desk that once belonged to her father and set the folder on top of it.

"Have you decided whether you wanted to pursue this?"

Catherine reached for her pipe - also an antique, and also once belonged to her father - and filled it with tobacco. John moved to light it for her, his expression tightening for a moment. She recognized the look and snorted. "Let me have this, John. There's nothing for it, now."

She eased into a chair, and lifted her hand, palm up. The man deposited the folder in her grasp. She flipped it open and scrutinized the documents clipped within.

"He looks questionable."

"What you're looking into is questionable. And he has a..." There it was, at last, a ripple of distaste on the man's features. "...reputation, but it falls in line with the nature of the matter." A hint of skepticism brushed over the man's features.

She attended to her pipe, smoke curling around her face at the doing. "You're not from there, John. You wouldn't understand."

"I could try if you told me."

"I already told you the story." Catherine shut the folder and looked up at him, white curls framing her visible impatience. "If you don't believe me, that's your prerogative, but it doesn't change the fact that this is my decision to make."

"...my apologies, Missus Levenson." To his credit, he sounded genuinely contrite.

"Mph." She waved a gnarled hand. "That isn't to say I don't appreciate your counsel." Her voice grew distant, absent. "I know that it was a long time ago. Let me think on it for a week. Remind me?"

"If you wish."

"I wish."

Once her personal assistant left her office, Catherine tossed the file on her coffee table, Alexander Clayton's photograph spilling from the sheaf. Turning her faded stare back to the portrait of her family home on the mantlepiece, she puffed at her pipe in silence.