Sitting behind his desk with the Gazette, Murdoch Lancer wore an expression most fathers experienced from time to time when attempting to comprehend the debatable actions of their children. His appearance reflected a fine balanced mix of confusion, frustration and exasperation, coated with the slightest hint of amusement. The patriarch’s finger methodically tapped Miss Providence’s photograph in time with the tick-tock of the Great Room clock preparing its announcement of the evening meal. His eyes drifted from the newspaper to his silent sons.
Resigned to the judge’s upcoming sentence, the youngest stood displaying crossed arms and a dipped chin. The oldest postured respectful attentiveness with clasped hands behind his back to encourage a last-minute pardon from the gallows.
Tick. Tap. Tock. Tap.
Scott stepped forward to begin his closing remarks for the defense. “Sir -"
A hand raised to halt the proceedings. “Son, for the sanity of all involved, let’s see if I understand the situation here before we continue.” Murdoch paused to ensure he had the floor. “Without asking permission, this little girl” - an additional tap of a finger landed on Miss Providence’s forehead - “Visited Will Jenkins and convinced him to hire her as a romance advisor to...” A held paper adjusted the distance between printed words and aging eyes to compensate for misplaced reading spectacles. “Guide the lonely heart through the Labyrinth of Love.”
Above the dipped chin a short snorted laugh replaced the tock after a tick.
A father’s frown ceased further jovial interruptions.
Murdoch’s summarization continued. “Seeing the need to cleverly reprimand her poor decision, my sons made one of their own by replacing the original advice letters conveniently acquired from Jenkins with bullshit nonsense they spent half the night writing.”
“It’s called The Old Switcheroo.” Johnny’s elbow nudged the mastermind. “Tell him, Scott.”
A darkened brow joining his father’s frown suggested a necessary postponement of relating the tale. “Now’s not the best time, brother.”
The patriarch leaned back with laced hands across his midsection. “I believe that’s the first wise choice you’ve made since I left for Stockton.”
“Sir, I felt a lesson needed to be taught.”
“Agreed. And a lesson was taught. However, there seems to be some question over an accurate identity of the pupil.”
Scott heard the distant trudge of an approaching hangman.
“John.” The judge made note of the time. “Tell Maria to hold off on supper for a bit. I need a moment to speak with your brother.”
A dipped chin rose to reveal a face sporting a smile.
“Oh, and Johnny… in the morning you can roll up your sleeves to fix that fine piece of transportation Jelly convinced me to buy from McCutcheon. Scott will happily assist once he returns from his social call with Will Jenkins.”
A lopsided grin of reprieve dissolved with a side comment of realization. “Looks like those beers weren’t so free after all, Boston.”
Having the room to themselves, Scott waited for the customary offer of a designated chair reserved for lobbing a conversation back and forth across the polished oak desk.
“Sit down.”
Settling in, Scott adjusted his backside. He never found this seat all that comfortable. A deliberate choice by the owner, no doubt.
“Seth Westcott.”
An eyebrow raised. “Sir?” At times his father’s abrupt turns in the path from Point A to Point B left Scott behind in the dust.
From day-old mail roaming across the desk, one was cut from the herd. “I received a letter from Seth Westcott. He’s requesting a few minutes of my time.” Discovered reading glasses perched on the bridge of Murdoch’s nose. “If convenient, Mister Lancer, I’d appreciate a meeting with you on the 19th to discuss a personal matter.” Spectacles were tossed aside to reclaim their status of misplaced. “I have a fairly good idea what his personal matter involves which I’m certain you’ve already given your blessing to.”
“Seth may have mentioned his intentions, but it’s you -"
“Son, if I was Westcott wishing to court Miss Furlong I’d seek your approval before asking an old man who questions what in Sam Hill is a Labyrinth of Love.”
Scott allowed a smile which helped cushion the uncomfortable chair. “I struggled with that one myself.”
“Hmmmm.” Miss Providence received another tap on the forehead. “Is the young man acquainted with this little girl’s mulish independent streak?”
On the day he’d first met Westcott at the family’s winery, Seth astutely connected Kinsey’s unannounced visit with Scott’s later arrival expressing disapproval of her venture. “He’s witnessed her determination to some degree.”
“Uh-huh.” Murdoch appeared to ponder a few of his own encounters with the little cousin. “What about that pretentious, obstinate, unmanageable, cheeky, ill-mannered, brazen temperament of hers?”
Smoking cigars at the Arcade Hotel came to mind. “You failed to mention spoiled and overindulged.” The added attributes softened the corners of his father’s mouth. “I’d say Seth has a solid understanding of the challenges Kinsey’s personality can provide.”
“Does the boy have a solid understanding of the challenges Kinsey’s kitchen skills can provide?”
“He’s aware the young lady can expertly order an expensive bottle of champagne to complement veal cutlets with Madeira sauce.”
A slight shake of the head indicated there would be no sympathy for Seth Westcott’s future dinner arrangements. “Tell me, son,” the softened corners of Murdoch’s mouth turned downward - “does he have knowledge of Kinsey’s attacker?”
“I don’t know.” Scott crossed his ankle to a knee and examined flecks of reddish San Joaquin dirt clinging to his boot. Truth be told, he didn’t want to know. Scott consistently pushed away this lingering dark cloud of apprehension over Westcott’s response to Kinsey’s rape by simply saying, “It’s her story to tell.”
“At one time, yes.” The patriarch placed Seth’s correspondence on top of Miss Providence’s photograph. “But now, under these circumstances, it becomes my story to tell.”
“Sir, I disagree.”
“Scott, I’d rather endure that little girl’s hatred for violating her privacy than watch her suffer from a husband’s rejection.”
“Is it our place to assume the direction of Seth Westcott’s judgment?”
“Is it our place to ignore it?”
Blink.
I’m not ignoring. I’m... avoiding. Scott knew the difference between the two words. Ignoring his grandfather’s manipulation - his father’s indifference - his brother's temper - had provided plenty of practice. But he sure as hell wasn’t ignoring the possibility of his little cousin being shunned for a detestable act she had no control over.
Scott rubbed the back of his neck. “I want to be present for the conversation.” Yes. The time had come to stop avoiding.
A slow nod from the elder Lancer approved the request as he fished out the Gazette from under Westcott’s letter. “The old switcheroo?” Murdoch rose and offered the paper to his son.
The 6:15 train pulled into the Point B Station.
Rising with his father, Scott accepted the Gazette. “It’s what Shay McLoughlin, Winnie’s shyster nephew, called the Three Card Monte.”
“The pious, opinionated, walk-on-water rhino had a black sheep in her family?” Murdoch’s rumbling revelation filled the Great Room. “I wish I’d known that before she left us to go nag old Saint Peter at the pearly gate.”
After years of jousting displeasure for each other, his father had finally buried the hatchet with Winnie shortly before her death. Nevertheless, Murdoch's customary use of the word rhino when describing her continued on. In turn, Scott was certain the Good Lord had heard a few choice words from Winifred McLoughlin regarding the bull.
“Son, I appreciate your motto: I can’t fix what I didn’t break. However, this time you and your brother picked up a goddamn boulder and tossed it through a stained glass window at The High Kirk of Glasgow.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll speak to Will tomorrow.” Folding the newspaper, he made a confident prediction. “Once Jenkins reads Kinsey’s responses to our bullshit nonsense he’ll think twice about hiring a romance advisor.”
*********
“Withhold her biscuits?” Will’s eyes darted back and forth, scanning a Miss Providence response. “Try your own hand at churning?”
The sun’s rays filtering through the Green River Gazette’s front window couldn’t have been sweeter if they’d belonged to the Glasgow Cathedral. Jenkins’ incredulous tone boosted Scott’s confidence that Kinsey’s fame as a guide to lonely hearts would be short-lived.
But then.
“By God, I’ve struck gold with you, Kinsey Rose!” Prospector Jenkins slapped his knee and let out a hoot. “Lancer, your little cousin is going to triple my paper’s circulation!”
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