“Your lemonade, Mrs. Stanford, reminds me of my mother.”
Kinsey’s simple statement of a past memory would bring a sense of nostalgia to most people. It only delivered a surprise to Scott. Surprise laced with the need for retribution. Last autumn, while sitting on a fallen log with his cousin, he’d learned the reason for her nightmares. A suitor’s demands. A mother’s indifference. A father's apathy. Never did Scott endorse horsewhipping until his insight into Kinsey’s parents. Never did he entertain premeditated murder until his knowledge of Kinsey’s rapist.
Since the day of their talk, his little cousin hadn’t mentioned her parents and Scott had stopped insisting on her writing letters to Melbourne. However, now it seemed Jane Stanford’s biting lemonade had resurrected Eleanor Furlong from the dusty archives of the long forgotten.
“Ah, your mother prefers the tartness of lemons.” The hostess set the glass pitcher aside.
“No. She prefers the tartness of a disposition.”
Kinsey’s response caught Scott off guard which led to a strangled cough. Fortunately, it went unnoticed - Mrs. Stanford's laughing drowned it out.
“Well, my tart lemonade is a statement on how I prefer my discussions. No sugar coating.” Jane raised her glass. “Here’s to candid conversations. I believe we’re off to a good start!” Her eyes settled on Scott. “Watching you play billiards, Mr. Lancer, I’m guessing you’re the one who promoted a delivered case of Westcott wine on the night of my dinner party.”
“Ma’am?” Scott hesitated. “My apologies. I’m not catching the connection between the two.”
“You know a good angle when it presents itself.” A soft smile set the tone. “Please take that as a compliment because it was meant as one. The arrival of the wine saved my evening even if perhaps it was sent with another thought in mind.”
“Mrs. Stanford, I stand on the Fifth Amendment.” Scott grinned and took a sip of lemonade.
“A Bostonian-investing-cattle rancher now wishing to be a lawyer. I haven't heard the term politician mentioned. May I suggest avoiding the occupation.” Male voices filtering from the hallway into the parlor snared Jane Stanford’s attention. “Politics have a way of changing a man. You seem quite... grounded, Mr. Lancer. Shall we keep it that way?”
“Yes, ma’am. I'll do my best.” In a short period of time, Scott arrived at the obvious conclusion - nothing got past Mrs. Jane Stanford.
“Miss Furlong, I’m curious. Why would a delicate rose be investing in rows of grapevines?”
Delicate? Scott raised an eyebrow while mentally correcting his previous assumption. Very little got past Mrs. Jane Stanford.
Kinsey’s hesitation encouraged a teasing note from their hostess. “Could the inspiration be the handsome Mr. Westcott?”
An embarrassed grin played across the younger cousin’s face as she intently studied her drink. “Perhaps.” Dipping her spoon into the glass created a slow waltz of lemon slices and ice. “Gentlemen speak of the importance of building a legacy and the satisfaction of the necessary hard work to accomplish such a feat. The satisfaction of avoiding death’s finality through future generations remembering.” Kinsey’s wistful inflection captured the stillness in the room. “I wish to experience this kind of satisfaction.”
“Well, now.” Mrs. Stanford nodded. “I was mistaken. I have two cedar trees before me.”
Scott shot his cousin a wink. “Indeed you do. One may still be a little seedling at times, but she’s growing up very quickly.”
The hallway voices had drifted to the lawn. Evidently, a recess had been declared. Glancing out the window, Scott spotted Seth in deep conversation with two vineyard proprietors.
“You’re needed elsewhere, Mr. Lancer. Understood. However, I must insist on a rematch in the future at the billiards table.”
Scott rose. “The honor of a rematch would be mine.”
“Now if I may… a request from the loser. Allow me to kidnap Miss Furlong for the rest of the day.” Jane lowered her voice. “I love my sister dearly but I believe Mr. Franklin stated it best regarding fish and houseguests after three days. A change in company would be a breath of fresh air.”
“I bow to my cousin for the decision.” An eyebrow cocked with a knowing smile. “Although, I’m already certain of her answer.”
*******
Scott spied Seth leaning against a large oak that dominated the Stanford mansion side yard. With his arms crossed and a solemn expression, the man’s appearance implied deep reflection. It was the same demeanor Johnny would occasionally display. Thankfully, the younger Westcott showed no signs of the tight lip affliction the younger Lancer acquired from time to time.
“How’s the weather today?” Scott claimed his own section of the tree trunk for support and bent down to select a tall blade of grass the gardener had missed with the push mower.
“Windy.” Seth shifted his stance and recrossed his arms. “And it appears a few men are now prepared to throw their caution into it.”
“Would their names be Westcott and Lancer?”
“Nah.” Seth chose a small twig over a blade of grass. “I heard those two were dumber than a box full of rocks on a sunny day.”
“I was told they couldn’t pour piss out of a boot with the instructions written on its heel.”
“History shows they’re thicker than two planks sawed in half and nailed together sideways.”
Scott briefly calculated the board measurements, nodded in agreement and continued. “Chances are Westcott and Lancer don’t know the difference between their backsides and a hole in the ground.”
“Speaking of backsides.” Seth’s twig assisted in pointing out their host in deep conversation with West. “Can Geoooorge climb up Leland’s backside any further?”
Adjusting his hat, Scott squinted at the mentioned assessment. “It’s a fact. Best lasso the man’s ankles and tie him down.” A sideways glance confirmed the banter had finally done its job. Seth’s customary grin returned home - a sign Scott could continue on a more serious note. “So, who are those men throwing caution into the wind and adding a few rocks to the box in the sun?”
“Meyers and O’Neil. Bedfellows with bankruptcy. They know they have nothing to lose by taking a chance with Westcott Winery.”
“The pendulum begins to swing our way. This is good.” Scott focused on George West’s animated gestures. “What do you think they're talking about?”
“Sure isn't the ingredients in an apple Brown Betty.” Seth tossed the twig aside. “So… you convinced the little lady to skip the meetings today.”
Scott’s blade of grass directed the gentleman’s focus to their left and the mansion flower gardens. “Not exactly.”
“Well, I'll be damned.” Seth’s eyes settled on Kinsey and Jane Stanford in their own deep conversation surrounded by the beauty of native California flora. “What do you think they're talking about?”
Pride in a small cedar inspired Scott’s smile. “Sure isn't the ingredients in an apple Brown Betty.”
*******
The ripples in Kinsey’s calm waters have been plentiful.
1. Kicking a shin - attached to Mayor Jenkins
2. Occupying a jail cell - property of Sheriff Crawford
3. Promoting the color pink - courtesy of Lancer chicken coop
4.
Scott stared at his written list. “Not enough pages left in the journal.”
It’s safe to say the stone tossed from the shore of Australia has produced an infinite amount of ripples.
She’s a strong-willed young lady and, I admit, with most of Kinsey’s spontaneously calculated shenanigans I've experienced a sense of pride in watching her take a stand. Today was no different. Determination got her Sacramento, a flower garden, a game of billiards, a glass of lemonade and Jane Stanford’s ear.
A rap on Scott’s hotel room door signaled it wasn't his cousin. “Come in.”
The hand resting on the knob of the opened door belonged to Kinsey’s smiling suitor. “Thought I'd let you know we’re back from our evening stroll. The little lady has been safely returned to her room for a good night’s sleep.”
“There were no concerns here.” Scott grinned. “You might want to get some rest yourself for a day of carrying hat boxes.”
Westcott snorted. “How bad can it be?”
“Have you ever taken a woman shopping?”
“Come to think of it…” Seth mentally confirmed his lack of experience . “No. I haven’t.”
An eye roll expressed Scott’s offered sympathy. “Rest up.”
“I'll take your advice.” Turning to leave, Westcott’s brow creased - ushering in a serious tone. “Are we making the right decision to let that little girl get involved with a bunch of…” Seth’s voice trailed off.
“Grape crushers?” Relying on Johnny’s expression seemed appropriate. “First of all, sir, you’re under the impression we have the ability to tell that little girl what she can and cannot do. The truth is we can only try and pray we succeed.” Scott settled back in his chair. “The young lady will be fine.”
Westcott nodded and tipped his hat. “G’night.”
Scott stared at the closed door until Seth’s footsteps faded down the hallway.
Tomorrow night is our final evening in Sacramento. A gala held at the Stanford mansion tops off a week filled with new challenges and few victories. My focus during the festivities will be on Kinsey. I meant what I said earlier today. I hope for calm waters. I'll accept a ripple. I won't permit waves.
S.
Comments