“Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe When tipp’d with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe; Like other charmers, wooing the caress More dazzlingly when daring in full dress; Yet thy true lovers more admire by far Thy naked beauties—give me a cigar!” Lord Byron The Island. Canto ii. Stanza 19.
The Arcade’s maître d'hôtel went by the name of Simon. He possessed the clipped, polite British accent commonly found in the male lineage of a gentleman’s gentleman. Like so many looking for an adventurous change, Simon broke from tradition, bought passage on a steamer and sailed west. Employment as a waiter at a high-end Boston restaurant provided him an income but not satisfaction. When re-telling his story, Simon admitted it wasn't a difficult decision to venture westward. Boston’s weather was too similar to London’s.
And so, he continued his travels until choosing Sacramento for his home where the hotel staff and guests became his family.
Due to the daily appearance for their evening meals giving way to midnight talks, Seth and Scott had been adopted by the maître d' which resulted in their nickname The Vino Boys. It was a nickname given with respect - the Arcade Hotel featured Westcott wine.
With the sight of Kinsey, Simon’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, The Vino Boys. And who is this lovely addition tonight gracing the arm of Mr. Westcott?”
“Sir.” Scott held out his hand to the young lady. “Allow me the honor to introduce Miss Furlong, my cousin. Kinsey Rose, this is Simon - the gentleman who has graciously endured our late night takeovers of his dining room.”
The maître d' bowed. “The pleasure is mine. Miss Furlong. Welcome to the Arcade Hotel. Mr. Lancer, your table awaits along with the usual.”
Simon guided the three vineyard partners to the customary pushed-together tables displaying a bottle of wine and glass goblets.
“I read the Arcade Hotel’s prime rib is excellent.” Kinsey sat down in the chair offered by Simon before he returned to the front desk.
“Sounds about right.” Scott undid the strap of his leather portfolio, removed papers, and spread them out on the table.
“And I understand their veal could be served in heaven.” The young lady raised a questioning eyebrow as documents spread out in a space normally reserved for plates and silverware.
Seth plopped down the newly purchased box of cigars along with his own stack of notes. “Can't say I ever tasted the veal at the Arcade.” Pulling out a chair, he seated himself, plucked a paper from the pile and began to silently read with no further comment.
Scott’s peripheral vision caught his cousin’s eyes darting about as he settled in. Amusement tickled the one corner of his mouth and creased a dimple.
“Scott.” Kinsey’s whispered voice carried concern.
“Hmmmmm.” A cloth napkin conveniently required attention.
“The maître d'.” Biting her lip, the cousin glanced over her shoulder. “He failed to leave us the menus.”
“Lancer. Take a look at this.” Seth passed a document under the little lady’s nose. “Those figures look right to you?”
Scott’s brow furrowed from the effort of focused concentration. “They seem a bit high.” A map unfolded to claim what clear area remained.
“Gentlemen.” Kinsey’s enunciation suggested a page from The Ladies' Book of Etiquette, and Manual of Politeness was about to be quoted. “A young lady finds it difficult to make an intelligent dinner selection without the assistance of a well-displayed listing of the restaurant’s main dishes.”
Appearing from the side room, a waiter with the skill of a trapeze artist weaved around the room’s obstacles of chairs and patrons while balancing a large silver platter on one hand above his head. Stopping at the partners’ table he smiled, nodded and announced -
“The usual.”
Three plated roast beef sandwiches, triple-stacked with all the trimmings, were served with the nobility reserved for the finest cuisine. With a quick bow, the server scurried back to the kitchen.
Silently, the young lady observed her entree designed for a hearty appetite. Stacked slabs of beef and thick slices of brown bread created a tower that defied gravity. Mustard and horseradish oozed between the layers. Kinsey closely examined a slice of red tomato as it abandoned its duty by slowly sliding off a lettuce leaf and into a puddle of juice on the plate.
Scott grinned. “Welcome to your first working dinner in the world of business, Freckles.”
“I see.” Grabbing the bull by the horns, Kinsey tackled the sandwich with both hands, raised it within striking distance and chomped off an impressive sample - pinky fingers extended and beef juice dripping off the chin. Through a mouthful of succulent roast beef, the obvious inquiry was stated. “Sumwun purin tha wine?”
Using telegrams had been damn near impossible in keeping his cousin abreast of the constantly changing situation with each day’s viticulturist meetings. Between bites of sandwich and sips of wine, Scott presented to her his maps and lists from the land office while Seth offered thoughts on expansion and modernization. Both men expressed their disappointment regarding the smaller vineyard owners’ lack of a harvest commitment to Westcott Winery.
“There was a time, according to my grandfather, a man’s reputation carried weight. An agreement could be sealed with a handshake.” Seth pushed his empty plate aside and flipped open the cigar box lid. “Trust is hard to come by these days. Land barons cast long shadows.” Westcott selected a cigar and pushed the box across the table for Scott to reach. “Word has it Stanford purchased Columbet’s Warm Springs Hotel plus 100 acres in the Bay Area. Plans to start up a winery. Old Leland named his brother manager and has him down there planting vines.”
“Politics. Railroads. Horse breeding. Vineyards. What doesn’t this man have his fingers in?” Reaching for a smoke, Scott discovered a different set of fingers had beat him to it. “Halt! What do you think you’re doing?”
Delicately grasped between a dainty thumb and index finger, a Havana hovered above the rest. “I’m having a cigar.”
“And now you’re not.” Scott plucked the belvedere from his cousin’s hand and returned it to its proper place.
“Honestly, Scott. Don’t be fatuous.”
“Fatuous?” A new adjective had been added to Scott’s list of personality traits.
“Fatuous.” The young lady selected another cigar. “It means silly.”
“I’m well aware of what the word means, Kinsey.” Leaning forward, Scott took hold of the walking dictionary’s wrist with one hand while claiming her cigar with his other. “And I said no.”
“No?”
“No.” To emphasize his conviction, Scott struck a match and lit the cigar for himself. “No. The word means - no. Besides, a proper young lady shouldn’t sport a green complexion in public. The Ladies' Book of Etiquette. Chapter nine. Page eighty-three.”
Seth’s chin dipped with a smile in response to the cousins’ banter.
“I’ve smoked hundreds of cigars.” Kinsey’s indignation only caused Westcott’s smile to widen.
“Hundreds?” Scott got comfortable by slinging his arm over the back of the chair and stretching out his legs. “When did you start smoking, little one? At the age of six?”
Westcott blew a smoke ring. “I was nine when I tried my first cigar. Snuck out behind the barn. Of course, my next stop was the woodshed.” He studied the Havana’s glowing ember. “Come to think of it, my lickin’ wasn’t for smoking the cigar. It was for stealing the damn thing from Grandfather’s desk. Tell me, does Australia have those available?”
“Oh yes, Seth” Kinsey’s happily shared. “The country isn’t all untamed outback. There are several civilized cities sporting sophistication. In Melbourne amenities such as imported cigars are readily accessible.”
“I’m talking about woodsheds, little lady, not cigars.”
Scott watched his cousin’s eyes summon a stormy cloud as a rebuttal alluded her.
Ah, ScottyGarrett, here sits the man for the lass.
Scott nodded. Winifred, I couldn’t agree more. “Kinsey Rose, before you decide to take up the hours this evening has left with your views on women’s rights, let me suggest a proposition. You prove your worth as a business woman and I will reconsider my stand on your cigar smoking.” Scott’s grin put the finishing touch to his teasing statements.
“I shouldn’t need to prove a blessed thing to either of you. However, I’ll agree to this childish game men insist on playing.” Kinsey pointed to her empty plate. “Digesting that monstrosity of a sandwich should be proof enough!”
“Close. But no cigar.” Scott placed a hand to his chest. “Forgive the necessary pun.”
Eyes rolled. “Sir, your wit suffers from fatigue.” Crossing her arms, the young lady adopted her cousin’s slow exhale while looking at the scattering of documents, lists and maps. “And my brain suffers the same affliction. This is terribly overwhelming.”
Her rare tone of defeat caused Scott to sit up and take notice. “Tomorrow, Westcott and I will continue to speak to the owners. They’ll come around.”
“Not to worry, little lady.” Seth pointed to the middle of the table. “We have a fresh box of negotiating.”
Viewing Kinsey’s questioning eyes, Scott offered a further explanation. “We discreetly discuss our plans with the owners during the several meeting breaks during the day. Mrs. Stanford forbids smoking in the mansion. We discovered a good Havana gifted to a man helps open his ears to a discussion.”
“And her husband doesn’t balk at being told he can’t smoke in his own home?”
Seth laughed. “I get the impression no one balks at this woman.”
“Gentlemen. George West may have Leland Stanford in his back pocket but perhaps it’s Jane Stanford we need to neatly tuck in our handbag.”
The Vino Boys stared at their business partner. Smiles spread across their faces while her simple statement took hold. Scott selected a cigar from the box and handed it to Kinsey while Seth retrieved a match from his vest pocket.
The young lady’s complexion remained untouched by the color green as she blew a smoke ring into the air.
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