[Monday 10 AM Early 2000’s – New York City]
The large grandfather clock in the main room had just finished striking 10 AM, its bell’s reverberations still resonating throughout the large New York City penthouse. Lynne Jackson sat at her makeup desk brushing her long, lustrous, jet-black hair. The desk was made of gold-plated metal tubing, engraved glass shelves, and an oversized mirror framed by lights such as one would see in the dressing room of a VIP actress or diva. This particular desk set was exactly that; having been manufactured for the star’s dressing room in an upscale New York speakeasy in the 1920s.
To look at Lynne, one would estimate her age to be in the mid-forties, maybe a tad earlier. That estimate would be wrong, however, by a wide margin. She was 199 years old, being born Lynalyn Stone in 1813 on the Missouri-Arkansas border to parents who are still living today, though she had no idea where they were at the present moment.
Her features were thin and elegant. She was tall for a woman, approaching five feet ten inches in height, and while her proportions were larger than average, her features were lanky and slim. Offsetting her black hair was her smooth, almost flawless alabaster skin.
She was a woman who preferred stark colors, everything she wore was either snow white or the darkest black, with the occasional gray clothing accessory if necessary to spice up the outfit. Since she was expected to attend a Gala celebrating the completion of her purchase of another company this evening in Los Angeles, she had decided that white was in order. She didn’t see any reason to introduce herself to the employees as an adversary instead of an advocate, they were likely to be on edge about the possibility of staff cutbacks and she wanted to ease those fears. Though she was known to be a shrewd and ruthless businesswoman, she had no intention of laying off the employees; to the contrary, she would be increasing their number, albeit in a new location.
Placing the brush onto the desktop, she reached to her right, picked up the burning cigarette from its ashtray, and took a drag. After a second of contemplation, she exhaled the smoke and put the cigarette back onto the ashtray. Lynne didn’t smoke often, nor did she particularly like doing it, but it was a habit that she had picked up from her deceased second husband that she had not managed to completely break. Andrew had been a United States Air Force General and as many in his field do, he used smoking as a crutch for stress relief, a compulsion that he had transferred to her.
She sat back in her cushioned chair, its springs creaking as the hinges allowed her to rock, and looked up toward the many mismatched photo frames that adorned the wall around her mirror. Her attention went to the picture of her second husband with their two sons, William and Kael. Tomorrow would be the ninth anniversary of Andrew’s death from lung cancer. She looked sidelong at the smoldering cigarette and reflected momentarily on the fact that her heritage made his fate a non-issue for her. On the right of the frame was a photo of Lynne’s daughter, Lillian, the day she was awarded her Bachelor’s Degree from college. An event that Lynne had been too busy to attend. She and Lillian hadn’t spoken since.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Then her eyes wandered over the photos in seemingly no order: Her son, William, at his high school graduation. Another graduation photo for her other son, Kael. The boys in their Air Force uniforms were in a shared frame. On the wall surrounding the frames of her children were the photos of her much further extended family, especially those of her many grandchildren.
“This place has felt empty these last two years,” she said to the walls, exhaling from another drag of the cigarette.
The phone rang and Lynne padded across the room to pick up the ornate Victorian-style handset, “Hello?”
“Yes, Tonya, I did get them,” Lynne said glancing at the package that her assistant had arranged to be delivered to the penthouse earlier.
“I remember what he said.”
“Yes, he is very handsome.”
“TONYA!” Lynne chuckled, blushing ever so slightly. “That is nothing more than a Japanese stereotype from movies. Besides, he’s married.”
“Yes, dear, I’m fully aware. I did operate a brothel after all.”
“So what if it was in the 1860s; sex is sex.”
“The plane? It’s supposed to be here at 4 PM.”
“Yes, it is the new model. If it performs as well as the engineers promise, I’ll authorize production next week.”
“It’s a ‘Dress Formal’ Gala celebrating my purchase of his company. How much fun could I possibly have?” Lynne placed the receiver back on the hook.
“Not everyone has your appetites.” She scolded the phone.