“How long is forever? Sometimes just one second.” ~ Lewis Carroll
Disembarking at the Boston and Providence train station, nostalgia enfolded Scott like the first sip of a fine aged brandy - familiar and comforting. He had, for most of his life, related the sight of the depot with “returning home” - returning home from summer holidays, various schools, war. Yes, in the past, arriving at the depot meant coming home.
Since the day Pinkerton’s man found him, departing from this station meant going home.
Scott had read the station was scheduled for razing. A new Boston and Providence would be taking its place - already being dubbed in the papers as the Palace Depot of the World. Melancholy stole a small piece of Scott’s nostalgia. This would no doubt be one of his last few opportunities to appreciate the depot’s setting and the memories it provided.
Picking up his leather travel bag, he scanned the crowd searching for a familiar face, knowing it wouldn't’ belong to his grandfather. Harlan despised places such as train stations. Instead, he’d send someone in his employ to wait for Scott. Generations of embedded rank and status ideals prohibited the man from greeting his grandson in such a common place.
At least, that's what Scott believed until moving to California and gaining a different perspective. In truth, his grandfather’s need for control included the people he surrounded himself with. In a sea of strangers, Harlan Garrett was lost. His grandfather found such a situation unacceptable.
“Mr. Lancer?”
Executing an about-face, Scott observed a neatly dressed middle-aged man sporting a pleasant smile and a Garrett staff demeanor.
“Mr. Scott Lancer?” The greeter’s eyes widened.
A six-foot-one man complimenting his outfit with a cowboy hat, ochre leather gloves, suede coat and boots was a rare sight in the middle of Boston. Scott grinned. He decided to make himself easy to spot at the train station. It appeared his plan had worked.
“Yes. Hello! I'm Scott. And you are…?”
“Martin. Your grandfather requested I meet you. Shall I retrieve the rest of your luggage, sir?”
Scott adjusted his hat and picked up his single leather bag. “I tend to travel light, Martin.”
“I see.” Still scrutinizing the clothes from California, doubt laced the gentleman's words. “I hope you packed proper attire, sir. I mean…” Martin cleared his throat. “The weather has turned a bit nasty.”
Scott suppressed a smile. He guessed the man had heard stories circulating through the Garrett domain of the rogue grandson living out west. ‘Martin will be confirming those rumors at the local pub tonight.’
Returning a hint of proper Brahmins accent to his speech, Scott put his welcoming committee of one at ease. “Don’t worry, I believe my memory serves me well regarding Boston winters. Shall we make our way to my grandfather’s carriage?”
Dreary, slushy streets passed by the carriage window making it difficult to recall the beautiful spring day when he’d traveled this same route with Kinsey. He made a mental note to bring his cousin here during the less sunny season so she could experience all that Boston had to offer. He closed his eyes to picture the Westcott vineyards and mentally review needed conversations.
“Sir, you’re home.”
Scott had become lost in his thoughts. He blinked as Martin held the carriage door open - waiting. His eyes followed the stone steps up to the iconic double-leaf oak doors. Every brownstone window shone brightly suggesting the festive mood of the holidays still remained inside.
“Sir? Is everything alright?”
“Everything’s fine, Martin. I was enjoying a moment of quiet reflection.” The driver’s eyes crinkled at the corners indicating he understood. Scott grabbed his luggage and climbed out of the carriage.
“Mr. Lancer.” Martin held out his hand. “If you please, sir.”
Scott glanced down at his bag and then greeted the gentleman with a knowing wink. “Of course.” Handing over the valise, he added. “I wouldn’t want to rock the boat.”
“No, sir. Rocking the boat is not on your grandfather’s agenda for the week.”
Scott decided he liked this man. “Oh? Well, Martin, I suggest you get a pair of sea legs.”
The vestibule held a Harlan Garrett tradition carried out each time Scott returned to Boston. Staff lined the roomy foyer with his grandfather standing in the center of his universe, arms extended to welcome his grandson.
“Scotty! Welcome home!” A handshake accompanied a brief pat on the back.
“Sir. It’s good to see you again.”
The ritual continued as Scott rekindled friendships with the older staff members and learned names of the newly hired help. Knowing who would be missing at the end of the line, melancholy took another bite into Scott’s nostalgia.
“Scotty, surely you remember Mrs. Stewart and Mrs. Whelan. They have taken charge of the kitchen since Mrs. McLoughlin’s passing.”
Scott struggled to place these two women and the roles they played in his past.
“Ah, Mr. Lancer.” Mrs. Stewart took possession of his right hand. “What a pleasure to be seein’ ye again. A welcomed sight fer these weary eyes.”
Mrs. Whelan took ownership of his left hand with such a firm grasp Scott feared the loss of circulation. “My dear boy. Me heart breaks knowin’ how much ye be missin’ Mrs. McLoughlin, but don’t ye worry. Winifred shared all her recipes with me.” The older woman’s voice lowered. “I be privy to which ones are yer favorites.”
“Well now, let's remember sharin’ a recipe isn’t the same as successfully cookin’ one.”
Mrs. Stewart’s eyes glimmered. “Wouldn’t ye agree, lad?”
“I think the proof will be in the puddin’.” Mrs. Whelan’s voice had taken on a wee bit of an edge.
“Ladies.” Scott reclaimed his hands. “My confidence is high the pudding and all your other culinary delights will inspire Mrs. McLoughlin to sing your praises with the Good Lord above.”
“Ah, Winifred. God rest her soul.” Mrs. Stewart placed her hand on her bosom and gazed up at the heavens. “Oh, my dear young man. How she talked to me about ye.”
“And to me.” Mrs. Whelan interjected. “Which is why I'll be fixin' all ye favorite meals.”
“My friendship with the dear departed speaks for itself.” Mrs. Stewart smiled sweetly. “I'll be doing the fixin' for our honored guest.”
Escape became a priority. Scott turned to his grandfather. “Sir, I believe you promised me a good brandy and a warm fire.”
Harlan beamed. “Indeed I did! We will be dining at six o’clock - plenty of time for a drink and some reminiscing. Come!”
Settling down in front of the study’s fireplace, Scott gladly accepted the snifter from his grandfather’s hand. The trip had been long. The warmth of the fire and liquor assisted in relaxing the tension of travel. Raising an eyebrow, Scott inquired. “So, you have placed two rather territorial women equally in charge of the kitchen?”
Taking his own sip of the amber liquid, Harlan nodded. “Mrs. McLoughlin had big shoes to fill.”
“Agreed. But with all due respect, sir, have you lost your mind?”
Harlan smiled. “My stomach enjoys the competition.”
Scott sat back and rolled his eyes. “I'm curious to know your ears’ opinion.”
The usual small talk of two people catching up guided the conversations as brandies were refilled. Finally, the subject matter Scott knew was unavoidable arose.
“It's a shame Kinsey couldn't join us.”
Scott glanced at his grandfather contemplating the flickering flames in the fireplace. “She sends her regards and promises to visit soon. It was a difficult decision for her to make.”
“Nonsense. An opportunity to attend a lecture in San Francisco? Of course, Kinsey should go. I'm pleased the young lady is seeking knowledge - expanding her mind.”
“She calls it broadening her horizons.”
Harlan chuckled. “Excellent.” Bringing the snifter to his lips, he paused as his brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t believe you mentioned the name of the keynote speaker.”
Avoiding eye contact, Scott shifted slightly in his chair. “No, I don't believe I did.”
“Is it Whitman? I hear his lectures are quite thought-provoking.”
“No. Not Whitman.” Scott sipped his brandy.
“The Twain fellow - Samuel Clemens. His wit is sharp.”
“No, no. Not Twain.” Scott repositioned his backside once again. Refilling his glass for the third time was probably not an option. “The speaker is Lucy Stone.”
The deafening silence in the room was only emphasized by the wall clock’s tick-tock. The sound transported him back to his youth - tick-tock - counting down to his grandfather’s chastisement.
“What? Lucy Stone?!”
“Sir -”
“That woman doesn’t lecture. She rallies! She preys on the gullibility of females and whips them into a frenzy. You permitted Kinsey to be subjected to public brainwashing?”
“Sir, I don’t believe it's that severe.”
“Oh, you don’t. Well, I’d like to know what liberal papers you're reading, Scott Garrett, to be so blatantly misinformed. My God, Lucy Stone.”
As his grandfather continued to bluster and rant, Scott decided refilling his glass for the third time was, indeed, an option. “May I remind you, sir, Kinsey first met Stone in this very room last spring -”
“My memory is fine, young man. You need not refresh it. However, yours appears to be distorted. Lucy Stone was not an invited guest that evening. Please tell me you didn't allow this dear girl to go to San Francisco unescorted.”
“Of course not!” Scott donned an indignant expression to match his grandfather's and hoped for the best.
Harlan fell back into his chair. “I can only pray Murdoch has enough sense to get her out of there when the situation becomes too outrageous.”
“Well…”
Tick-tock.
Comments