Boston, Massachusetts
Beacon Hill
Scott’s childhood home had been in the Garrett family since the early 1800’s when Federal style symmetrical pairs of houses and row houses were built for the wealthy residents of Chestnut and Mt. Vernon Streets. Recently some of the more affluent people had begun the move to the Back Bay with its mansard-roofed houses that were larger and airier than the heavier populated Beacon Hill. Scott knew his grandfather would never consider the notion of relocating even if it meant owning one of the free-standing manors near the waterfront. The south slope was the seat of Boston’s wealth and power. With their distinctive accent, the Boston Brahmins were described by Oliver Wendell Holmes as “harmless, inoffensive, untitled aristocracy” living with “their ancestral portraits and Chinese porcelains” possessing “ Yankee shrewdness and New England exclusiveness.” Needless to say, Scott could not remember any of Holmes’ works being part of his Grandfather’s library collections.
This was the environment Scott had been raised - wanting for nothing. Harlan Garrett had provided his grandson anything and everything except the knowledge of a father. It was the struggle of loving respect and gratitude for his grandfather versus the resentment of the same man for denying him a father/son relationship Scott knew he would grapple with for the rest of his life.
Scott felt déjà vu as he followed his grandfather up the familiar steps that once provided imaginary battlefields and “the high ground” for his and George’s lead soldiers.
Turning around he realized his little cousin had remained stationary at the bottom of the stairs. Seeing the expression her face, Scott smiled to himself. He knew what the subject matter would be in her sketch journal this evening.
“Is she alright, Scotty?”
“Yes. I’ll explain later.”
Turning around Scott joined his cousin. “Does this look familiar, Freckles?”
“A bit. Although I believe the steps were bigger.”
Crossing his arms, Scott frowned while closely studying the main entrance to his grandfather’s home. “Hmmmm. I believe you’re right. These steps were bigger! I have no explanation. Wait! No. It can’t be that.”
“What?”
“Well, we use to be smaller.”
Kinsey rolled her eyes and sighed. “You so enjoy preying on my stupid statements.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“It’s fun.”
Once inside it was apparent that Harlan had sent out a telegram or two of his own from Philadelphia. The staff he employed to help maintain the household was gathered in the foyer to greet the travelers. Most of the faces were new to Scott as his grandfather worked around the room with introductions. However, a familiar voice was waiting at the end of the line.
“ScottyGarrett. Welcome back home.”
“Winnie. It’s good to be back home…for a visit.”
Winifred McLoughlin was a stocky woman of the Irish descendant who had been cooking for the Garretts since the beginning of time. She had also assumed the maternal role in Scott’s life when needed and the bond remained unbroken through the years. Due to Winnie always calling Scott by his first and middle name as if they were one, he never knew when he was in hot water with her until it was too late. And Winifred was a force to be reckoned with.
“Great Aunt Winifred?”
Winnie raised an eyebrow as she focused her attention on the young lady who now joined the conversation. Putting his arm around his cousin Scott began to explain.
“Well, Kinsey, Winnie has been with our family all my life. She’s like a great aunt.”
“But I thought you said her nose was one that a …”
”Greek Goddess would covet. I’m certain that’s what I said.”
“You told me she was a ghost.”
Winifred’s stare returned to the tall blonde as he offered her a sheepish grin. “I may have embellished slightly.” Scott leaned in to plant a kiss on Winnie’s cheek and whisper in her ear. “I was making your secret recipe for a bad dream.”
“For you or for the lass?”
“The lass.”
“And you?”
“Not as many Winnie. Not like before.”
“Well, ScottyGarrett, it appears the good Lord above blessed ye with a substitute for a wee sister who will tattle on yer every move. Justice has finally been served. KinseyRose, life would have been easier if I had ye around years ago.”
Scott raised an eyebrow. Evidently, Winnie’s memory was failing and doesn’t remember eight-year-old Kinsey’s temperament. Life would not have been easier but certainly more entertaining.
When it came to preparing an excellent meal, Winifred McLoughlin’s memory was still sharp as a tack. Harlan held court at the head of the table with amusing stories of Scott growing up with brief appearances from Winnie to fill in the details while serving the next course.
“Kinsey my dear, if I do not remove myself from this dinner table, Mrs. McLoughlin will certainly insist I eat another piece of her apple pie. Please honor me with your presence as I show you our home.”
Kinsey’s glance to Scott and his nod of approval were not lost on Harlan Garrett.
“Sir, the honor would be mine. I would love to tour your home. I’m afraid my only memories of these beautiful rooms are bumping into adult legs.”
Scott gathered up the few remaining dishes from the table and headed to the kitchen to find Winnie.
“What are doing? Do think I’m too old to be bringing plates in from the dining room?’
“Did it ever occur to you, Winifred, I might want to help?”
“Hand me those before ye break them.”
In his familiar stance of crossing his arms, Scott leaned against the counter to watch his friend and confidant tidy up her domain.
“How have you been Winnie?”
“A touch of arthritis. I can’t complain.”
“And grandfather?”
“Why ye be asking me? Why aren’t ye asking him?”
Scott sighed and stared at the floor letting silence momentarily guide the conversation.
“Your grandfather was greatly disappointed when ye didn’t return with him from California.”
“It was complicated.”
“So why are ye here in Boston, ScottyGarrett? And don’t be lyin’ to me. This isn’t a social visit now, is it?”
“Winnie, we need to find time to talk.”
Heading to his room to retire, Scott was not surprised to see light filtering from under Kinsey’s bedroom door. Neither was he shocked upon entering to find his cousin drawing.
“I know. I should be sleeping.”
“So why aren’t you?”
“I needed to…reflect.”
Scott held out his hand and waited patiently for the sketchbook to be placed in it. He smiled as he observed a drawing of his grandfather’s house with oversized steps and one of Winnie with an undersized nose.
“Your grandfather has every minute of tomorrow planned with a carriage ride through Boston and a rather large gathering in the evening.”
“No doubt to celebrate the reconnection with the temperamental niece and the return of the wayward grandson.”
“What about the lawyer?”
“We have time. It will be fine. Go to sleep. Now.”
As Scott lay in bed staring at the ceiling, his words tumbled through his head.
We have time.
It will be fine.
Go to sleep.
Now.
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