Continue the Legacy

Wealthy lesbian woman befriends and helps a homeless woman.

They called her the cat woman, albeit she only had three cats. Maybe, they called her cat woman because she fed stray cats and a cat or two always lingered by her back doorstep meowing for her attention and affection, hoping for some food, too. Her name was Jenna Charles.

Ever since her long-time lover and companion, Ruth Charles, died of breast cancer three years ago, she lived alone on Beacon Street, near the corner of Charles Street, in the house that Ruth's grandfather, Ulysses Charles, a retired and successful, black banker, built more than 100 years ago, long before she was born. Back then, he was one of the few men, albeit black men, who helped other black men with loans to buy homes and businesses. Just as a black man was refused a loan at a white bank, and women were refused loans at any bank, for that matter, Ulysses Charles didn't loan money to white men, for fear of not being paid and having no recourse in a white society to collect his money.

Nonetheless, he filled the niche that made him as rich as many of his white Brahmin banker counterparts, who lived beside him on Beacon Hill and those others who inhabited Back Bay. Only, because of the times and the color of his skin, he was never accepted in their closed knit community, even after he built one of the premier homes on Beacon Hill. Had the citizenry known that a black man had invaded their small, elite, and aristocratic community and bought property there, they would have burnt his house to the ground, but he survived being burnt out by staying to himself and not trying to be invited to where he wasn't wanted and didn't belong. Besides, with the homes so close together, if they burned one, they burned them all.

Matter of fact, his neighbors thought that his family of blacks were the servants and not the owners. Pretending he was the butler of the house and in charge in the owner's absence, any time anyone came calling, he'd tell them that Ulysses Charles and family were on an extended vacation in Europe. Just as it was easy to be noticed back then and in that high society community, a time long before computers and with the long arm of the Internet invading everyone's privacy, it was easy to disappear, too.

Ulysses Charles made a lot of money at a time when there was a lot of money to be made. When labor was cheap and before federal income taxes accessed penalties on its citizens, no expense was spare with the construction of this sweet Victorian mansion. Directly across from the Boston Common and only a block away from the Public Garden, the golden dome of the State House shone down the hill upon this stately home. Yet, this story isn't about Ulysses Charles, it's about his granddaughter, Ruth Charles, and about the legacy that she started and wanted continued by passing it on to Jenna Charles.

"Continue the legacy," was all that Ruth whispered to Jenna before she died.

Jenna knew what she meant, of course, she needn't have said any more than that. Attuned to one another, as lifetime partners, they always knew the other's meaning, sometimes without words. She kissed Ruth on the lips and bade her a last good-bye, while waiting, as the monitor flat lined an alarm, and watched, as the doctor declared the time of death. The doctors could have prolonged her life a few more weeks or months but not without a great deal of discomfort, angst, and agony for the both of them. Ruth had already made her last wishes known by signing a document not to resuscitate.

Jenna couldn't stay to watch any longer and needed to leave, before they covered Ruth's body with a sheet and wheeled her to the morgue. Her lingering illness and subsequent death had been a depressing conclusion to a full and happy life. Talking about it at great length beforehand, Ruth was ready and prepared to go and she died quietly and quickly. It had been difficult enough to make the final details of the funeral arrangements that morning. Jenna felt so helpless seeing her best friend, her lover, and her longtime companion lying there so still and so quiet, as if she was sleeping. Yet, she was glad that she was finally at peace.

Jenna stayed home for months before venturing out on the streets of Boston again. Haunted by the memory of Ruth, having grown uncomfortable staying in that big and empty house without her, she regularly fled her home and her familiar surroundings for other distractions to occupy her thoughts from missing Ruth. Her home was too much of a beautiful place to abandon for long, though, but she needed the time away from the house they shared to clear her head and get over the loss of her mentor.

From her rooftop garden to the right, she had a clear view of the Esplanade and the Charles River and to her immediate left she overlooked the Boston Common and the Public Garden. She loved this area of Boston because she didn't need a car and she let, Peter, the chauffeur go when Ruth died. Having a chauffeur and an automobile was Ruth's idea. Unlike Jenna who enjoyed a brisk stroll through the park, Ruth was obese and didn't like to walk. Jenna gave Peter the car, a pristine blue Bentley, that he washed every week, waxed regularly, and cared for, as if it was his own. She didn't care much for cars, for driving, or being driven. Besides, she could walk anywhere she needed to go in the city from where she lived.

She lived in the middle of the city, the Back Bay and on the Beacon Hill area of Boston where the elite once lived like royalty in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. She loved the quaintness, the charm, and the character of the area with each house compacted side by side, so much like a picturesque cover of a Hallmark greeting card. Every house was distinctly different and, every year, professors would take their engineering students for a walking tour around the area to point out different architectural styles.

An artist made a small fortune on reproducing the doors of Boston, each door was as different as the resident who lived behind them. Artists made hundreds of paintings and photographers made thousands of prints of the homes, and tourist could never take enough photographs of the area. She loved the charm of Boston's history that was so rich with art and culture. As did her house, every house and every block had a story to tell and secrets to reveal.

In a house originally built and designed for a large family, her grand surroundings afforded her an unprecedented level of privacy. With the loss of Ruth, her self-imposed prison wasn't so horrible, but to her, it was unbearable. She lived in opulent but understated luxury, but it wasn't the same without having Ruth there to share it with her. She missed her biting remarks, her off the cuff humor, and her laugh. In the way she acted, irreverently funny, she reminded her of a black Bette Midler.

As soon as you entered the foyer of the four storied home with its high ceilings, large rooms, original fancy woodwork, hardwood floors, mahogany woodwork, chandeliered ceilings, pocket doors, ornate decorations of the period with beveled and stained glass, oriental carpets, and with a fireplace in nearly every room, you knew that this was not only a historic house but also a house of distinction. With everything antique and in as new condition, once you crossed the threshold and entered the home, it felt surreal, as if you were suddenly living in the way the rich lived back in the late 1800's and early 1900's. The reception hall, with its grand winding staircase, domed 18' ceiling, and Tiffany chandelier, paid tribute to a slower time past. The unrelenting tick, tick, tick and melodious chime from the 100-plus-year-old grandfather clock filled the house of the passing time that titillated your imagination and reminded you what it was like to live back then.

With every piece of furniture and fixture restored and true to the period, time stood still here. With no expense spared and nothing but the best, an antique dealer would kill to auction the original prized pieces that resided in this museum like house. Once inside the house and for the length of your visit, you felt thrown back to the Victorian period, an age of calm elegance. The noise of modern day with all the cars, traffic, and congestion assaulted your senses, as soon as you walked out the front door; a jolting reminder that it was today and not yesteryear. Wishing they could stay, wishing they could live here, those who visited the home, did not want to leave.

It was a house that when constructed cost fifteen thousand dollars to build, a lot of money back then. With the appreciated value in Boston's real estate market made more valuable by the desirable location, the immaculate condition of the property, and the preservation of its history, it was now worth more than fifteen million dollars, still a lot of money today. Moreover, if you were to liquidate the antiques and artwork that resided within at auction, her property and the value of her possessions skyrocketed to more than 50 million dollars. Then, there were the stocks and the bonds that Ruth's father left Ruth and that Ruth had now left Jenna. When accounting for all of that, her fortune climbed to, depending on the condition of the market, of course, more than three hundred million dollars.

Ruth gave Jenna strict instructions to never liquidate the investment portfolio, but instead to buy and to nurture it with a watchful eye to what current events did to the condition of the market and invest accordingly. Ruth kept abreast of local and world conditions that could positively and adversely affect her investment portfolio and, because of her keen insight of human nature and world events, she had been a savvy investor, quadrupling her wealth. Passing along what she learned, she taught Jenna well.

"Let it work for you, Jenna, and you will have no worries in your retirement. If I am to die before you," she said prophetically before she became ill, "continue my legacy of helping women."

It was the legacy they both shared and the legacy that gave them joy. Their wealth meant nothing to them personally; they merely used it as a vehicle to help other women in need. Except for the ostentation of the period house, there were no fancy cars, expensive trips, or embarrassing displays of wealth. Matter of fact, if you were to pass by Jenna on the street, you'd never suspect she was so wealthy. Instead of filled with extravagance, her life was filled with responsibility, duty, functions, and charities.

Like Ruth before her, Jenna was a shrewd and savvy investor increasing her stock portfolio significantly higher than the 9% rate of return that the market earned each year. Considering her wealth, she was frugal with her money and did not squander it foolishly. Each year, she made and saved more than she spent and that allowed her wealth to grow exponentially, as if it were a mushroom cloud on the vast horizon. She lived well but not extravagantly. Her modest lifestyle grew her net worth rather than diminished it.

After Ruth died, Jenna didn't want to live alone. Besides, the premise of continuing the legacy wouldn't allow her to live a solitary life. It was not her choice or her intention to live without love and without sex. She was still a young and vibrant enough of a woman to have a lover and to continue the legacy. Unfortunately, being alone and being lonely had just happened. It wasn't easy trusting people when you were that rich and she didn't want to open her door, and welcome someone to her bed, who was only after her money and who wouldn't continue the legacy after she was gone. She needed to find that special someone, as Ruth had found her. Only, it wasn't so easy.

Her life wasn't the same without Ruth and she so terribly missed her friend that she could not bear to think of herself with another woman. She had always been a heterosexual woman, that is, until she met Ruth. She wasn't a lesbian, never had a lesbian experience, didn't even have lesbian thoughts, until she met Ruth, and then it just happened. Still, even if asked point blank if she was lesbian, she'd be hard pressed to admit she was. The way she looked at it was that she loved Ruth, who happened to be a woman.

Something changed deep inside her when she met Ruth. She had never met anyone like her before. Ruth was smart, confident, and kind. Unlike any man she had known, Ruth was good to her. How could she not fall in love with her? It was the loving and caring relationship she always yearned to have with a man, but found with a woman. Now, the thoughts of her bedding and being with a man, as she had done early in her sexual development, disgusted her, as much of the thoughts of her being with another woman did, now that Ruth was gone.

She and Ruth married long before Ruth had taken ill and Jenna took Ruth's name. At the time, same sex marriages had just become legal in Massachusetts. Ruth, fifteen years older than Jenna, shared plans of adopting a baby girl. They had even agreed upon the name, Ashleigh. Yet, it was not to be, once Ruth became ill and never recovered. The cancer sucked the life out of her.

When Ruth died, Jenna lost all interest in the things she loved, entertaining, the arts, and charities. Now, except for her daily walks and the work that she does at the women's shelter, she stays home tending to her garden and reading. Abstaining from sex, she was celibate and remained that way out of some convoluted respect to Ruth's memory. She never loved anyone as much as she loved Ruth. They had been together for fifteen years.

She had friends, of course. Unfortunately, the older she grew, the less she socialized, and the less she was invited to parties and functions. She drifted away from actively participating in life and from seeking the company of others. She became reclusively aloof hiding out in the familiar luxury of her home. Rather than hire a cook and a maid, preferring to live alone, twice daily, she dined at the Ritz Carlton, which was only two blocks from her house, once in the afternoon for high tea and later in the evening for dinner.

When Ruth died her friends encouraged her to sell her big brownstone home and live at one of the penthouse suites that the Ritz had newly designed, constructed, and decorated. By living at the Ritz, they figured that she'd rub elbows with others in her class and hopefully meet someone special. She bought the suite, but couldn't bring herself to live there or to sell Ruth's beloved family home. The house held too many good memories of the times they shared together. She sub-leased her penthouse suite at the Ritz to some Boston Red Sox baseball player, who only used it when he was in Boston, which was not very often, especially after he had been traded to the New York Yankees and then to the Los Angeles Dodgers.

She was content to stay home alone with her cats, named Queen Anne, because she was a haughty cat, Miss Priss, because she was a fussy cat, and Back Bay, because she found her roaming Back Bay homeless and hungry. Back Bay was a scrappy black cat. Jenna was a sucker for the downtrodden and Back Bay was her favorite cat because, as she was once homeless, she was a survivor. With her dominant nature, Back Bay appeared stronger than the other two cats and in that way, she reminded her of herself.

Rejecting the black banking empire his father had built, Ruth's father worked for IBM before retiring. That was where he met a lanky, redheaded, pimple and freckled faced, annoying boy of a man, named Billie who bored everyone to tears talking about a language that no one cared about and no one understood. Everyone who worked at IBM made fun of Billie. Before geek was coined a term to describe computer nerds, they thought him odd and weird.

A genius, who bordered on insanity and who smelled from not bathing regularly, Billie wrote programs for IBM but was savvy enough to keep the licenses in the name of his company. When Big Blue thought that the personal computer would change the world and that the world revolved around IBM, they were right, that is, until they lost their vision. In the early '80's, IBM spent millions of dollars advertising their personal computer with their Charlie Chaplin impersonator ads only to give up on the idea of a computer in every house and foolishly gave away the rights to the operating language, PC-DOS, to the odd, redheaded boy.

A new technology that they had invested so much time, effort, and money, they foolishly, but later ruefully discarded, without second thoughts, to this annoying boy, just to, finally, rid them of him and of it. He and his language were odd and they wanted no part of this oddity anymore. Big Blue was big business and Billie was not part of their team. He wasn't their type of employee, the company controlled employee that IBM wanted and was accustomed to having.

The higher and, in hindsight, misguided powers at IBM decided to put their effort into business computers instead of home computers. Besides, that lanky, redheaded, pimple and freckled faced, annoying boy never conformed to their standards by wearing the required white shirt, black pants, and black tie. Certainly, he was not one of them. Certainly, he would not amount to anything. Certainly, that software that he so highly regarded was a waste of his time and their money. Let him have it and good riddance to him.

Billie renamed his PC-DOS software MS-DOS and, with a few friends he met at MIT and a few investors who shared his vision, he created Microsoft and became better known as the richest man in the world, Bill Gates. Billie's passion for innovation impressed Ruth's father. He had never met anyone so focused, devoted, and smart.

With his nose pressed to the glass watching Billie work his magic with numbers and with the new age invention of personal computers, Ruth's father believed the vision that Billie espoused. Bill Gates had so irritated the management at IBM that when Microsoft went public, Ruth's father invested all of his stock portfolio in Billie's new software company. The rest is history and is the reason why Ruth and, now, Jenna never had to work a day in their lives or worry about money.

Jenna loved to walk and she so looked forward to the simple routine of walking from her house on Beacon Hill to the library at Copley Square, aptly named, the Copley Square Public Library. She loved to read and read a book a day. It was her daily ritual that she enjoyed returning the one book she borrowed and read that day for a new book to read the next. The borrowing of another new book and the returning of the other read book each day, gave her a reason to walk and it was a nice walk down the forever busy Newbury Street. There was always something new to look at on Newbury Street with all the boutiques and shops. Never did she borrow more than one book because she never knew in advance what she'd want to read tomorrow; it depended on her mood that day.

The walk across Beacon Street and through part of the Boston Common, across Charles Street and through the length of the Public Gardens, across Arlington Street, down Newbury Street, across Berkeley Street and continuing to the next block, Clarendon Street, is a 10 block roundtrip downhill trip there and an uphill trek back. The daily constitutional maintained her good health with positive spirits and the clarity of a sound mind. Besides, her favorite part of the walk was at the end, at Clarendon Street, where she met and befriended, a young woman, named of all names, Ashleigh.

Before Ruth had taken ill and died, she and Jenna had wanted to adopt a baby, a daughter, and to name her Ashleigh. It was fateful that she would befriend a woman so aptly named and Jenna viewed the meeting as more than a coincidence. Firmly believing that there's a reason for everything, she looked upon the chance encounter as kismet. The friendship gave Jenna something to look forward to everyday. The interest in someone else replaced the self-pity that consumed her with the loss of Ruth and the self-indulgence that, oftentimes, happens to someone, who has unlimited wealth at their disposal and too much time on their hands.