Legacy of an Aficionado

"Twenty below with the wind-chill," announced the weather reporter on the local PBS radio station.

"A perfect day for a funeral in Chicago," Ed thought wryly, as he gazed from the darkness of the window in the second story brownstone. His cold blue eyes noting how the snow fell upon the dimly lit brick street, as the ancient barren Oaks stood watch. Compact cars lined up on both sides, parking, as people do in the city, bumper to bumper. The steady stream of people, entrepreneurs, socialites, journalists and professors from various Hyde Park Universities and Seminaries made their way up the snow covered sidewalk and into the warmth below, where they would be greeted by their hostess.

"Hypocrites, each and every last one of them," he whispered, until his eyes befell one, a beaut of a woman in her late thirties, and he brightened considerably. "Except you, Cat" He laughed softly, seeing his protégée stamp her black leather boots to stay warm as she waited to be let in. He would guess she was dressed simply, sporting a long black wool skirt and a turtle neck, and a Burberry scarf. He had known her forever. It would just be a matter of time, until she came up to him. Ah how he had missed her. Her stunning honesty, her passionate convictions, those never ending deep green eyes. Was it wrong to notice those eyes now?

Downstairs in the brownstone, there was much, much going on. It was a day that would be quietly noted by the cities socialites, and perhaps some of the business community. The striking red head woman seemingly blended in, speaking and smiling when appropriate, shaking hands and finally making her way to the family. She kissed the cheek of the grieving sister and brother, glancing around for the wife, finding it odd she was not to be found.

Cat had glanced at all the pictures sitting around of the man she loved. They spanned his 60 year life, from his childhood fishing picture with his father to his grand award being named Chicago's Businessman of the Year, just last year. She listened to conversations as the light scent of cigar smoke permeated the downstairs, a snifter of cognac lifted in remembrance. When she thought it safe, she made her way up the dark stairs, clenching tight the bannister in her warm palm. Verdant hues glanced over her shoulder, as her hand rested upon the doorknob to the double french doors, the most opulent in the house.

She hadn't talked to Edward J. Robertson, III, in a long time, but she was connected deeper to him, than any other man on this earth, although the closest she had ever got to him, was a handshake, a pat on the back, and perhaps a kiss on the cheek at Christmas. Cat wanted answers. She needed answers. Catriona moved with the grace of a large predator, her eyes were immediately drawn to a handwritten note sitting in the middle of the desk.

Oh ho, what have we here? Robertson playfully asked from the comfort of a large, dark brown leather wingback chair near the hearth. It took you long enough. I always knew, it would be you, who came. He smiled appearing almost proud. The unseen apparition was a vision in his black Italian suit, a white rose in the lapel, his salt and pepper hair adding distinction to his elegant demeanor.

The protégée, rather tall by nature, froze as she heard a noise in the hall. Detection seemed likely.

Quick, quick, think quick.

In her most confident voice, she turned to the window, her left hand to her ear, appearing to look upon rehabbers dreams, studying the real estate. She in fact, studied the reflection in the window, from the door.

"Hello, Triple A? I ...I have a flat...can you tell me how long it will be? Uh huh.. Thank you... Yes.. Yes, since 1996. Last name O'Mally, First name Catriona."

Very, very nice.

She gave the address in Hyde Park, snapped the cell phone closed and turned to see the portly Vice President, and the pseudo grieving widow. With a contrite smile, Cat murmured softly. "Oh...Sorry.. I needed a quiet place, didn't want to bother you. I remembered the way, I hope you don't mind. I, need to wait for a return call. OK to take it here? I, don't want to take you from your visitors, Mrs. Robertson."

Mrs. Robertson, had never appreciated Cat's mind, the way her husband did. Mrs. Robertson had also never appreciated the fact, her husband knew how to keep his personal and business life separated. In fact, Mrs Robertson was known to have only appreciated her husband for what he could give her, literally and figuratively.

You would think she could at least have puffy lids

With a masked look of disgust, Catriona eyed the VP of Sales, once her peer, and who seemed to be angling his next account, and nodded adding, "Nice to see you."

Cat gave the woman a charmingly polite smile, learned from her mentor, and added, "I am sorry for your loss, I am sure it is very difficult for you, " glancing to the one who would be left to run the business, "both."

The now doubly affluent fem and her substantial pillar of emotional support left quickly seemingly uncomfortable, returning to the mourners, who were showered with cognac and cigars and caviar.

What a disgusting duo, he sighed from the hearth.

"How could she let that creature comfort her?" Cat mused to no one in particular.

Something gnawed at her...and she couldn't put her finger on it. She glanced down at the note and blinked. It merely said " Things are not what they seem."

"They rarely are"

Rubbing her temples she eyed the bottle of Louis XIV on the desk corner and the snifters, and reluctantly settled for a plucking a bottle of Evian. She glanced around the room, drawn to the hearth, it's warmth on this sub-zero night comforting and refined, like the man. Pondering those words..she made her way past the bookcases, her fingers lightly running over the old leather bound volumes, as she sank into one of the matching leather wingbacks, remembering some of the meetings they had here.

Oh ho, my fledgling has come back, to me, the only one worthy.

She was interviewed in this room, had business meetings here, and come to seek his advice here. And most likely, fell in love with him here. But, he was off limits...he was her boss, and a married man. She closed her eyes and wondered why it was...when they were together, it seemed as if they had always been together, knew what the other thought, and seemingly belonged together. It was fitting, that this was the room, she would seek out. After a while, a restless spirit settled within her, and she crossed back to the desk. In all the years she had never before presumed to sit behind the dark antique.

Yes, Cat, here let me pull the chair out for you.

Forcing herself to eye the note pad, Cat shook her head, and squinted. The words now read like an obituary. "I married the wrong woman, for the wrong reasons and honored it as I would any business agreement, from whence sprang several self-serving spawn. I did little to help fellow man, accumulated a massive fortune and in the end, what was it all for? I made no difference at all."

Cat fingered the cell phone and contemplated calling her therapist. Swiveling in the chair she noted the lake effect snow falling in large cotton like flakes and sighed thinking the shelters would be full this night. Closing her eyes she reminisced on how she came to him right out of Graduate school MBA in hand, drawn like a moth to the light, determined to make it big. She learned, and studied, and could not bare working so close to him. One day, as hard as it was, she decided she needed to make a difference and left the Armani wearing icon. It was exactly a year ago to the date that she left him for what she felt was a higher calling, working with the homeless.

She idly picked up a cigar cutter, and sighed. From 1996 until last Christmas, Cat had always given him a box of his favorite cigars. Tears came to her eyes as she thought about it, how she enjoyed shopping for the aficionado in the small specialty store full of deep scents and dark wood. She had missed it this year. She felt sudden guilt, wondering if it had been one of her Cohibas that had killed Chicago's Businessman of the Year. Blinking away the tears and closing her eyes, she envisioned the blue and silver boxes of the Davidoffs displayed downstairs along side the Louis XIV. Something wasn't right!

"You are not a Davidoff man!"

Indeed not!

She glanced one last time at the pad of paper afraid to see what would be there. This time it was blank. She teared up as she slammed her fist down, "Talk to me...don't you stop now!" The hearth fire flared up and then lowered to barely a flicker.

"She had you cremated with the Davidoff"

All the better to cover the poison.

Several days later, Cat watched the waves break and the cars plod slowly over the ice covered Lake Shore Drive from her 24th floor apartment. She hadn't gone out, nor spoke since Triple A showed up at the door, and she left without saying a word, tipping handsomely upon discovering the perfectly inflated tire. An Attorney called, regarding the last will and testament of Mr. Edward J. Robertson, III. When the papers arrived in the mail, her hands shook as she looked at them, the front page held a handwritten note. "Help me make a difference, allow me to live on through others" The recently deceased sixty year old apparently had established a very, very large philanthropic trust, weeks after she had left.

The company had been dissolved, his family left none of the proceeds, just his sizable personal assets. The Vice President received a generous severance package. Six months later, a new charitable agency was formed, and in the office sat two leather wingbacks and the antique, old fashioned, solid desk with a pad of stationary from a very old friend, personal gifts for the administrator, Ms. Catriona O'Mally. Cat didn't need a therapist, or a medium, or to watch the TV show about Crossing Over. She knew their lives were enmeshed, always had been, and always would be. That night, she lit a candle and watched it burn low, contemplating their next lifetime, would their love be unrequited? Somehow, after this one, she highly doubted it.