“Mrs. Lancer.” Accommodating hospitality oozed from the greeting.
“Pardon me?” Disputing bewilderment rolled off the reply.
Parting the room’s temporary wall like Moses eyeballing the Red Sea, Scott inserted himself in a situation that could head to hell in a handbasket. “Kinsey!” Taking his cousin by the arm he pulled her back a few steps from the open bedroom doorway.
“Sweetheart -”
“Sweetheart? Scott-”
“Yes, my love. Why don't you unpack our luggage while I speak to the thoughtful gentleman who commands the front desk here at the Grand Central.”
As if he were conducting the New York Philharmonic, Scott orchestrated his next moves seamlessly. Side-stepping in front of Kinsey, he placed his right hand on the clerk’s shoulder to facilitate the man’s backward retreat into the hallway and with two long strides both gentlemen exited the honeymoon suite. While passing the room’s door, Scott’s left hand grasped the knob to assist in blocking off the voice of a protesting female. While the door slowly closed, the front desk clerk stretched his neck beyond its limits to catch the final glimpse of the last vacant room in Omaha. Observing this anatomically defying feat, Irving’s schoolmaster Crane popped into Scott’s mind. When was the last time he’d read The Legend of Sleepy Hollow?
Scott leaned in sync with the clerk to make eye contact. “Can I help you, Mister…?” Eyebrows raised to encourage a response.
Straightening to address his hotel guest, the gentleman cleared his throat. “Winston.”
Grateful the man didn't reply Ichabod, Scott smiled and nodded. “Mister Winston, it is. What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Lancer, are your accommodations satisfactory?”
“Why yes, of course. We’re quite happy with our room.”
“Forgive me for asking.” The clerk strained to peer over Scott’s shoulder toward the closed door. “I couldn't help noticing…”
Foreseeing where the conversation was leading, Scott let the unfinished sentence hang for a moment. “Ah. The blankets.”
Winston beamed with relief for not needing to point out the obvious. “Please understand my only concern is for our guests’ comfort.”
Scott highly doubted the clerk’s only concern was satisfied customers. He guessed the Omaha Daily Bee received their more scandalous stories from this fella. Putting his arm around Winston as if ready to share a deep dark secret, Scott spoke in a hushed tone. “Truth be told, it's Mrs. Lancer.” Glancing over his shoulder to be certain no one was listening, he continued. “You see, Winston, my wife comes from a very sheltered childhood. Her parents - pious, God-fearing people - meant well but fell short in informing the dear girl of the more...shall we say...intimate situations of marriage. I’m afraid, sir, since this is our first night together, Mrs. Lancer is having a slight attack of the blushing bride. So the blankets -”
“Ah! No further explanation is needed, Mr. Lancer. Understandable when marrying such a delicate flower.”
“Delicate flower, indeed. Do you know she was about to join the Good Sisters of Mercy in Sacramento when I caught her eye?”
“Ah.” Scott’s designated marriage counselor nodded. “And you captured her heart. Their loss is your gain, sir. Now, if we could speak of your current dilemma, I believe I have brought you a possible remedy.”
For the first time since the chaos began, Scott took note of the object the man held - an ice bucket. “Champagne?”
Winston patted the bucket with the gentleness offered to a newborn babe. “Compliments of the Grand Central Hotel. We understand the more contemporary hotels in San Francisco bestow certain amenities to their newlyweds. It promotes return visits to their establishments. And here in Omaha, we like to think we’re the San Francisco of the Midwest.” Relinquishing the silver bucket, the clerk winked. “A few sips of the bubbly and your evening should go as planned.”
Scott nodded with an appreciative smile as he accepted the recently chilled gift. “Thank you. And, ah...thank you in advance from Mrs. Lancer, as well.”
Silence steered the lack of conversation suggesting there would be no further opportunities to peek inside the Lancer’s unusual honeymoon haven - forcing the reluctant Mr. Winston to exit down the hallway. Slowly exhaling, Scott hesitantly opened his hotel room door anticipating the Spanish Inquisition waiting on the other side.
“Did you hear him?” As predicted, Kinsey was sitting on the bed waiting to pounce. “He called me Mrs. Lancer. He thinks we’re married. What did you tell him? What the bloody hell is happening here?”
Scott, ignoring the barrage of questions, looked about their larger Grand Central Hotel room that now had grown considerably smaller. “What the bloody hell is happening HERE?” Petticoats were scattered about along with shoes, dresses, and several items he couldn't readily identify.
“I unpacked.”
“No. You lit the fuse to the stick of dynamite inside your luggage. It's the only reasonable explanation for this mess.” He’d never ventured into his cousin’s room back at the ranch but had witnessed on more than one occasion Maria reprimanding Kinsey regarding the condition of her bedroom.
Pushing the blanket aside, Scott viewed his clothes dumped in a heap where he planned to get a good night’s sleep.
“I didn't know where you wanted your things stored.”
“The middle of the bed. Perfect.”
Tossing a petticoat aside, Scott sat down in the now available chair while placing the ice bucket between his feet.
“Is that champagne?”
Not the next question he expected from his cousin, but certainly an easy one to answer. “It is.”
“A complimentary gift?”
A too involved response could lead to mayhem. Scott chose his words carefully. “Yes.”
“Why isn't it open?”
Ah, the query took a bit more thought but had a simple solution. Pulling the bottle out of the bucket, Scott deftly removed the wax covering and popped the cork with little spillage.
“Where are the glasses?”
This question was a stumper. Where were the glasses? In his haste to deliver the newlywed’s champagne, Winston had forgotten the glasses. A survival strategy presented itself. Picking off the last remnants of wax, Scott wiped down the lip of the bottle with his shirt sleeve and handed it over to his little cousin.
Grabbing the bottle by its neck, The Delicate Flower of the Midwest took a healthy draw on the champagne without wavering. “All right, marriage has one advantage.” A dress sleeve served as the continued proper protocol for shared drinking hygiene before the bottle made a return trip.
For the time being, Scott couldn’t agree more as he took his own generous gulp of champagne.
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