When I arrived at Logan International Airport in Boston, a uniformed chauffeur was waiting with a sign that read C. Anthony. I introduced myself and he sped my luggage into the limo.
“Which hotel am I staying in?” I asked as I settled into the back seat.
“I wasn’t told to bring you to a hotel. I’m to take you to the White Estate.”
Really? I couldn’t comprehend this treatment. Was this just for lunch?
I looked around as we entered through a gate and continued onto the property. There wasn’t a lot of land but what there was, was manicured to perfection. Beds of flowers and bushes lined the driveway and the edges of the property.
The house was magnificent. It looked like it had been there since the American Revolution. There were three or four floors by the looks of it, and the corner ro
