Cutting Scenes - The Fine Line

stand, canvases and painting supplies, photos of her children
and grandchildren, and a framed portrait of her dead husband. He
looked like a banker with rosacea, a tall thin man in a suit,
with a ruddy face and piercing, grey eyes. I hung him over the
fireplace for her. The bed was already made, the kitchen stocked
with supplies, and the linen closet filled with plush towels, an
extra blanket, and clean sheets and pillowcases. I gave her a
map of downtown Westwin. We spread it out on her desk.
“Can you read maps?” I asked
“Yes,” she said.
“Good,” I replied.
“The bank is about here,” I marked it with an X, and did
the same for the supermarket, post office, theatre, and
bowling alley.
“We’re very close to town,” I said.
“Just go to the end of the driveway, turn right until you
hit the first light, then take a left. It’s no more than 10
minutes away.”
_______
Jane was spoiled, and I did nothing to change that. If
anything, I made it worse. We were patrons of the Boston
Symphony Orchestra and went to concerts at least three times a
month. We were on the advisory councils of several philanthropic
groups, and attended expensive benefits on a regular basis. I
was a ranking member of the local Democratic party, and we often
held fund-raising events at the house, catered affairs with
caviar, Moet et Chandon, scallops wrapped in bacon, mushrooms
stuffed with heart of mongoose, and generous portions of parlez
vous Francais.
I sat on the boards of a software company, a new social
media group, a leading advertising agency, Bank of America,
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