They’d been “arguing” about money as they were apt to do. At a much earlier time the back and forth was for certain and intended.

He’d not made their fortune.

She’d judged her husband that he would.

Fortune made he could and would never get past The Crash and subsequent conflagration as 1929 turned into a decade of suffering the magnitude quite immeasurable. He’d tried to explain his beliefs and fears, but, she did not understand. She’d been born to unaffected privilege.

“Doll, you worry too much.”

“Kay.” As he folded “The Wall Street Journal.”

But, she’d walked away. The stores patiently waiting her arrival, their checkbook in her Rodeo Drive handbag.

“Buddy-boy, what’s the matter?”

Mister Ed queried his owner as Wilbur Post entered their shared space of stable and office.

Ed had heard the sirens and seen the ambulance arrive, then watched yet another extra long vehicle depart hours later in total silence. Something or other “Mortuary” printed on the side.

Wilbur had been crying.

“Addison, he is dead.”