“Abe Levine,” Annie said, in a voice that was not her own. “That was a cruel thing to say. Cruel, and stupid, and just not true”

February 13, 1964

The attorney’s office was perfect for sadness.

Somber brown-and-beige curtains, brown leather couch that looked as if no human being had ever sat upon it — or ever would. A dark-green ink blotter sat in the exact center of the heavy mahogany desk, with three thick law books carefully stacked up on one side and a sheaf of papers on the other.

It was those papers that had brought Dr. Abe and Annie Levine to the law offices of McCracken, Howard, and Chatham. McCracken and Howard had long since retired, and it was George Chatham, attorney-at-law, who was reading the last will and testament of Mrs. Celia Mayer.

Annie’s Aunt Cele.

“I will skip the introductory legalisms,” the attorney began, his voice measured and professional. “Basically, the entirety of your aunt’s estate, including all properties, investments, and personal belongings, is to be inherited by her niece, Mrs. Anna Levine.” His voice softened, became a little more human. “My congratulations, Mrs. Levine. Your aunt was a shrewd woman. She took her late husband’s considerable assets and invested wisely both in stocks and real estate. Once her holdings are realized, even after heavy inheritance taxes, you will be quite a wealthy woman.”

As Mr. Chatham droned on, with words like probate and notarization and capital gains flowing smoothly out of his mouth, Annie’s mind was far, far away from the slightly overheated law office. A shrewd woman. Yes, Aunt Cele — her only aunt, her final link to her mother, Aunt Cele’s twin sister — had been clever in her own way. Annie was well aware of her aunt’s faults and shortcomings, with her self-centered view of life, her superficial materialism. And yet Aunt Cele had given Annie her love. And Annie had returned it generously, staying at her side almost constantly these past few months, both at home and during prolonged hospital stays, as Cele had battled the dread disease.

And now her aunt was dead. Annie’s thoughts flew back to the funeral, which had taken place just a few weeks before. The levayah reflected Cele Mayer’s life: a curious mixture of the Manhattan social whirl and Brooklyn’s religious community. Her moneyed society friends were a little taken aback by the simplicity of the graveside ceremony — why, even the coffin was made of plain oak — and the eulogies were brief, with many Hebrew words and phrases thrown in. But as odd, almost medieval, as Cele’s only family seemed to be, all agreed that she had been very lucky in her niece. Dr. Levine’s charming wife, Anna Levine, had shown a devotion in Cele’s last illness that would have been rare even in a daughter.