It was the summer of 1998 which went on record as being one of the hottest summers to date. The Porter Estate in Philadelphia, although modest, was still the scene of many a fine dinner party; mostly consisting of liberal scholars and artistic types. A sort of ‘pseudo thinkers club,’ as Melvin Porter himself would often compare it.

His daughter, Bette, was to attend his latest gathering, so he was taking exceptional interest in making sure everything was pitch perfect; every piece of art from his collection displayed to her liking and approval. She had just opened a gallery of her own in California and upon her father’s insistence, was coming east to land as many investors as possible for her latest endeavor. Although she felt it was beneath her to ask for money, she wasn’t about to argue the point. Her father had insisted, and that was all that mattered.

She arrived at the estate around 4:30 pm. As the driver pulled into the driveway she could feel the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She hadn’t been home since her mother’s passing four years earlier. After bearing witness to the long illness, and it’s subsequent end, Bette packed what little she felt she needed and made her journey west to get away from the home that held every bit of her angst and sadness.

The driver opened the door and took her hand, helping her to stand and face the inevitable. Her eyes studied the front of the house as he retrieved her bags.

“I’ll bring your bags up to your room, Bette. Your father asked that I inform you he’ll be in the study,” he said. “That’s fine. Thank you, Thomas.”

Bette walked into the foyer and took a deep breath before continuing on toward her father’s study. As she opened the door, Melvin stood and put his arms out. “There you are, finally.” He walked over and pulled Bette to his chest before quickly releasing her. “Well, let me look at you,” he said. “I’m the same, daddy, no?”