Removing the remaining brown paper revealed a dovetail box constructed from smooth, honey-brown teak wood which diffused a leather-like scent. Brass hinges shone a soft amber while the words CROQUET - For Old and Young, eloquently painted in red enamel across the box front, stirred interest in the contents.
Undoing the clasp, Kinsey lifted the lid. Housed inside were six mallets and six balls, all tooled from contrasting hardwoods and sporting their identifying colored stripes of blue, black, green, red, yellow and orange. Two carved strikers, also decorated in game colors, and wire wickets completed the set.
“Oh, Kinsey!” Teresa ran her hand along the edge of the box. “This is beautiful.”
Scott agreed. The set’s craftsmanship was top-notch. Hunks of wood nailed to ends of hickory sticks so as to whack around a few balls of twine it was not. Harlan Garrett had shelled out a few coins for the gift. Suspicion had not only grown… it bloomed.
“A note!” As his cousin removed the envelope from the box to read, Scott took a few steps back. He didn't need to distinguish the handwriting on the letter - he was quite familiar with the author's penmanship.
My dear Kinsey,
Please permit me to be a doting uncle and accept this small gift.
Doting uncle? Small gift? His grandfather demanded an eye roll. This was going to be painful.
Traveling across the pond from England, lawn croquet has become quite popular here in the East. The first time I watched two refined Bostonian young ladies play the game I thought of you and the lovely Miss O’Brien.
Female giggles interrupted Harlan’s humble opening lines which possessed a hint of intentionally-directed flattery.
I must say I was skeptical of what entertainment quality the game could provide but after participating in a few matches I found it quite delightful.
Scott squinted to bring into focus the mental picture of his grandfather swinging a mallet as he strutted about on a finely manicured lawn. A headache started knocking.
I’ll anticipate your invitation for a visit someday and the opportunity to challenge you in a game of croquet.
Bingo. There it was - Harlan’s latest angle to improve the currently stalled communication with his grandson.
Until then, please enjoy this offering of a civilized pastime. No guns are required.
Unless Johnny played. His brother’s participation could profoundly change the game rules. Merry old England would be skipping their afternoon tea and heading straight to the liquor cabinet.
Boston society missed our charming Miss Furlong during the holidays. Please consider returning in the near future.
Fondly,
Uncle Harlan
Scott’s raised eyebrows spoke of his disbelief. Could it be possible the ungrateful, wayward grandson dodged the bullet of a sarky remark?
Postscript: Be so kind to inform my grandson his last few correspondences never reached Boston. I'm certain it’s due to the mailbag’s frigid surrender to frostbite in the Rocky Mountains or its inadequate backstroke while crossing the muddy waters of the Mississippi River.
The moment of silence for the untimely demise of the mailbag halted when young lady laughter-no-longer-giggles erupted. “Seriously, Scott.” Teresa pointed to the letter in her friend’s hand. “You must admit that’s funny.”
Dipping his chin to the chest, Scott, with a resigned smile crossed his arms and stared at the ground. There would be no denying. Harlan Garrett displayed impressive effort with his final jab. Examination of the gravel at his feet continued while the girls’ questions and comments, overlapping in a tangle of exuberant phrases motivated by the items removed from the box, echoed in his ears.
-how the mallets are held-
-called wickets-
-heavy-
-stuck in the ground-
-hit the ball through the hoop-
“Whoa.” The unexpected arrival of Johnny’s remark caused Scott’s head to snap up and to the left where his brother intently focused on the unfolding scene. “I thought those two had settled their differences.”
Turning his attention to the ladies explained the conclusion. With mallets slung over their shoulders, Teresa and Kinsey appeared to be facing off for the ultimate cat fight with the spoils of war being a lovely teak wood box. Scott swept his arm out in front of him. “What you see before us, little brother, is an attempt by my grandfather to nudge his way back into my life. A creative attempt, I might add.”
“What’s his plan? Have the girls knock everyone senseless so he can swoop in and haul your behind back to Boston?”
“I don’t think Grandfather's scheme is that direct… unfortunately.”
“The rule book!” Kinsey’s proclamation reflected one of discovering lost Inca gold.
“Rule book?” Johnny’s forehead puckered causing his eyebrows to slant downward toward the bridge of his nose. “There’s rules to swingin’ an oversized hammer?”
Scott recognized the expression on his little brother’s face. It usually appeared right before a situation which required the friendly reminder - curiosity killed the cat. Advice, by the way, that was very rarely followed. As the responsible older brother, he knew the best decision would be to steer Johnny away from the whole affair.
However...
“It's called a mallet - used in croquet.” Scott grinned. “Croquet is a game of skill demanding a sharp eye and keen senses. I believe you’d excel as a player.” Yes, like a second helping of mashed potatoes, some things were just too good to pass up.
Kinsey cleared her voice and, taking the stance of a great orator, began to read from the exalted literary work entitled Croquet: Its Principals and Rules to her gathered audience. “Charming! Is the universal exclamation of all who play or who witness the playing of croquet.”
“Charming?” Johnny briefly tugged on his earlobe while mulling over the word. “Swingin’ around a wooden hammer is charming? Darlin’ what happened to that etiquette book Scott gave you? I’m thinkin’ you may have skipped over a chapter or two.”
Even though eye contact wasn’t made, the small twitch in the corner of his cousin’s mouth indicated she’d heard the possible heckler in the group. Undaunted, the lesson in croquet continued. “Most persons suppose it to be a new game, yet, although in some respects new, it is little more than an old one revived. It used to be played by the ancient Gauls -”
“Gulls?” The now confirmed heckler gathered steam. “Sea gulls?”
Still denying eye contact, Kinsey bit her lower lip, held on to her waning composure and carried on. “It used to be played by the ancient CELTS so universally, that the greater portion of the promenade -”
“PROM-n-naaaad?”
“A large, neatly maintained, grassy area!” Teresa’s annoyance came in the form of scolding. “Now, please! Quit interrupting!” And in case there was any confusion with her spoken words, a sharp shush sound provided the final exclamation point.
Johnny's head swiveled around to observe the landscape around him. After brief calculations, he crossed his arms and turned his back on Kinsey’s resumed dramatic reading to speak privately in a hushed voice. “Tell me, big brother, am I missin’ something here?”
“No. I'd say you have a fairly good grasp on the situation.”
“Best one of us tell ‘em?”
Rubbing his chin assisted in a moment of reflection. “Yes. It would be best if one of us gently pointed out the obvious.” Scott fished a coin out of his pocket. “Call it.” The silver dollar caught glints of the sun as it headed heavenward before gravity brought it back neatly to where it was launched.
“Tails.”
A slow reveal of the back of his hand placed a smile on Scott’s face. “Lady Luck is with you today, little brother. Tails it is. You have the honors.”
Johnny tipped his hat. “Appreciate the opportunity.” Pivoting back to address the speaker, the first attempt was made. “Darlin’?”
“Adjoining large towns consisted each of a long alley called the mall -”
“Half-pint.”
“Brought about the name of the game pall-mall or in French -”
“Kinsey Rose!”
“Jeu de mail. Sweet-fancy-Moses-what-is-it-John?!”
“Well…” Placing his hands on hips, the inquisitive look of a lost traveler in need of a compass was displayed. “Could you kindly point me in the direction of the Lancer PROM-n-naaaad?” Kinsey’s silence suggested further details were required. “You know, the large, neatly maintained, grassy area.”
Two sets of female eyes shifted about - viewing the dirt, gravel, and bushes in their immediate surroundings. It appeared a grand game of croquet was not to be until Teresa’s matter-of-fact solution produced a quick recovery to the possible dilemma. “We will simply create one.”
An alarm sounded in Scott’s head as the reading of the rules picked up where it had left off. Knuckle-tapping his little brother on the shoulder, the concern was shared. “I heard the word WE. I suggest this would be a fine time for a retreat.”
********
An unspoken agreement had taken place among Murdoch's children. No mention of the package from Boston occurred during supper. Not once was the word croquet uttered as the evening quietly wound down with games of chess, readings of Emerson, and needlepoints of Paris. Scott assumed no one chose to speak of the latest gift from the East due to the fact that the giver’s name would eventually enter the conversation. Avoidance of saying Harlan Garrett continued until the final goodnight and into the next morning.
The list of demands from the ranch presented at sunrise was lengthy, but Scott didn't mind. Removing his accessibility from around the hacienda seemed prudent and, taking into account Johnny's zero grumblings, his younger brother felt the same. With tasks scattered across the Lancer acreage, the brothers were joined by the family patriarch - a man realizing the rare opportunity to enjoy the company of his two sons while admiring the land they owned.
By early-afternoon, hours of hard work had pushed concerns of expensive gifts and hidden agendas to the background. It wasn't until the return home that the first hint something was askew presented itself.
“Why are those horses in the holding pen?” Murdoch’s gaze never left the several horses corralled next to the barn as he dismounted. “They were to be left in the pasture past the barn.”
Scott shifted his weight in the saddle. Under raised eyebrows, his eyes traveled from the penned horses to his brother who mirrored the silent response to their father’s query.
“I told Jelly those horses were to graze. Jelly!” Murdoch's head twisted around looking for the whiskered ranch hand. “Jelly! Where in blazes is the man?”
As the boys' feet hit the ground, the gentleman in question emerged from the barn. Jelly’s frequent persona blustered loudly not-my-fault.
Gesturing toward the corral, Murdoch thundered his previous question with the cadence of a hometown politician in a heated debate. “Why are those horses in the holding pen? I said they were to graze for the week. Jammed into a corral is not grazing.”
“I tried to tell ‘em you wouldn’t be pleased.” With his hands shoved deep in his pockets, Hoskins began his usual struggle to walk the fine line between a childish tattletale and a responsible adult. Scott already knew which one would win out.
“Who?” His father’s voice oozed annoyance.
“I said the boss ain’t gonna like this. But those two wouldn't listen.”
Briefly casting his eyes toward his sons, the interrogator pressed on. “Well, I know it's not those two so which two are you referring to?”
Johnny offered an observation. “Sure are a lot of twos being thrown around here. A man could get confused.” Two hats, adjusted low on the brows due to a father’s glare, were added to the list.
“Those little gals can hand out the sass when they have a mind ta. Doesn't take long for that kinda talk ta wear a man down. No siree…” Jelly’s sentence trailed off as his head turned toward the grazing pasture past the barn. “Wears a man right down ta the bone.”
A march commenced from the holding pen, past the barn door, around the corner and across several yards of open land to the boundary of the grazing pasture. All four men rested their arms on the top rail as their brains grappled with the view beyond the fence.
“What in the Sam Hill am I looking at?” Murdoch’s inflection matched his first-time encounter with Scott’s ostrich purchase.
What his father was looking at were two young ladies dressed as if attending an afternoon lawn party. Both girls, completely unaware of the chaos they’d created, pranced about a section of the recently scythed pasture while hitting wooden balls with mallets.
Scott cleared his throat and made the first attempt to sound casual. “It appears a game of croquet is being played on the Lancer promenade.”
“The Lancer promenade. ” Murdoch repeated the phrase as if it would make more sense hearing it again.
“It’s that large, well-maintained grassy area yonder.” Johnny’s informative addition was admirably absent of sarcasm.
“Yes, John, I know. Thank you.”
“They were stubborn as mules, boss. Wouldn’t listen ta a single word I had ta say.”
Scott rolled his eyes. He’d had enough of this little man pointing fingers. “Please satisfy my curiosity, Jelly. Which one of the ladies rounded up the horses and which one handled the reaping-hook?”
“Well now - I don’t have time to be jawin’ away the day with you and yer smart aleck remarks.” A snort of indignation announced Jelly’s exit.
“Since we're satisfying curiosities, son, satisfy mine. How did that croquet set find its way to the Lancer promenade?”
Once again, Johnny eagerly shared his knowledge on the subject. “The way I hear it, it started with the ancient Seagulls.” Self-control on sarcasm was dwindling.
“I'm addressing your brother, John.”
“The set arrived yesterday from Boston.” Scott tested his theory on the word Boston having less of an impact than the word Grandfather. “It’s a gift for Kinsey.”
Murdoch’s jaw worked back and forth as if grinding up his words before spitting them out. “I see.”
If his father had planned to add more on his opinion of Harlan’s gift, thus dismissing Scott’s theory, it was cut short by the girls acknowledging their audience. The sights and sounds of their beckoning to play stopped further discussion on the gift giver.
Murdoch’s slight smile, wave and nod toward the playing field sharply contrasted with the words being spoken to his sons. “I want that game removed and the horses returned to the pasture. And I want those young ladies inside for a discussion.” Turning on his heels, a final comment drifted off with his departure. “This is a ranch not some damn promenade.”
Johnny let out a low whistle. “I know two little lasses about to get a good dose of yellin-at.”
“Well, one of them is getting a taste of it right now.” Placing his thumb and index finger to the lips, Scott let out a shrill whistle which brought activity to a halt. The same index finger pointed at his cousin and then waggled in the air - summoning her presence.
Watching Kinsey’s bouncing gait and innocent smile while swinging her mallet, Johnny let out a laugh. “Kinda hard to stay mad at her, lookin’ the way she does.”
“I'm currently finding it rather easy.” Scott’s scowl deepened as his cousin approached. “Who gave you permission to move the horses to the holding pen?”
“Well, I think it's obvious they would have been in the way.” The response sounded quite sensible.
Guessing his facial expression wasn’t having the effect intended, Scott lowered his voice and leaned in. “Who gave you permission to cut down perfectly good grazing grass?”
“Trimmed. The grass needed trimmed. Come play a game with us and you’ll agree.”
“No. That won't be happening.”
A slight upturn to the corners of his cousin's mouth created a sly, all-knowing smile as she glanced over her shoulder - shouting out to her partner in crime. “You were right Teresa! They're afraid of losing.”
“Whoa-ho. Now just hold up there, darlin’.” Johnny’s jovial mood evaporated. “That’s not what we're sayin’.”
“No need to say it, John.” Kinsey delivered her double dog dare with the cutting precision of a seasoned schoolyard bully. “I see the fear in your eyes.”
“Fear?!” Astonishment settled in as his taunting nemesis tossed her hair and returned to the croquet game. “Did you hear that? She said fear.”
“She’s baiting you.” Scott’s words fell on deaf ears as his brother’s foot hit the bottom rail to swing his leg over the fence.
“One game, Scott.” Johnny landed on the opposite side and held up a finger. “One. Then we’ll see who has goddamn fear in their eyes.”
Feeling outnumbered, Scott observed his little brother make his way to the promenade. Damn. A boot rested on the bottom rail. Damn. Hands grabbed the top rail. All right. One. A prediction was made. “Forget fear. This is a goddamn mistake.”
The first controversy was almost immediate.
“First, we must chose our game color.” Teresa graciously gestured to the mallet selection displayed on the ground.
“Black.” Johnny reached down to snag the black striped mallet and matching ball. “I choose black.”
“Well, of course you do.” Kinsey raised an eyebrow. “Scott?”
“Blue will be fine.” Picking up the mallet and ball, the weight each carried surprised him. Someone could be knocked senseless with a wild swing.
Teresa’s sunny disposition guided her to select yellow while Kinsey reached for the green.
“Wait.” Johnny grabbed a mallet. “You best take red, half-pint. It matches your temper.”
“Very well. Red it is.” Gratitude was not reflected in his cousin's tone. Scott pushed back his hat and envisioned a wild swing happening sooner than later.
After a quick review of the wicket layout and the path taken to play, the decree was set forth. Blue shall go first.
“Hold it.” Johnny raised his hand. “We should flip a coin to see who goes first.”
“This is a sophisticated game so your two-headed nickel won’t be required.” Kinsey pointed to the stripes on the starting post. “We go in the order of the colors and blue is first. You should have stayed yesterday and listened to the rules.”
Scott revised his vision of the future - not one wild swing but several and much sooner than later.
As the game commenced, the girls handled the mallets with ease due to practice. Scott’s troubles surfaced in undershooting the wicket while Johnny overshot the target. However, their skill sets gradually evened out and the prediction of a goddamn mistake seemed premature.
Until…
“Ha! You’ve been hit!!” Skipping up to the black striped ball, Kinsey positioned her game ball next to it - resting her foot on the red stripe to hold it in place. With one solid whack from her mallet, the momentum traveled through her croquet ball to send Johnny’s flying into the tall grass.
“What do you think you’re doing?” The offended party headed toward the grasses.
“I made contact and knocked your game ball out of play. It's in the rule book.”
“Looks like cheating to me.” Thrashing around with his mallet, Johnny located the black striped ball and tossed it back onto the battle ground.
“Oh no. That’s cheating! You have to play from where it landed. It's in the rule book.”
“Is that a fact?” Tossing his croquet ball back into the grass, the gauntlet was thrown down. “Well, kid, let’s see how well that works out for you.” With surprising accuracy, the black striped ball came careening out of the weeds and made a beeline for a direct hit on a red stripe. Three long strides, a well-placed boot, and a solid whack sent Kinsey’s game ball sailing into a pile of overlooked horse dung at the edge of the Lancer promenade.
“You did that on purpose, Johnny Valens!”
“Play it where it lands, Kinsey Rose.”
The amusement generated by his younger brother and little cousin arguing over a pile of horse shit required a silent thanks to his grandfather for bestowing a gift of refinement and sophistication.
“I'd say you all take the game of croquet a might serious.” The slightly familiar voice from behind joined the observation. “Good to see you again, Scott.”
“Seth?”