Albert Matheson, a fourteen-year-old boarding school classmate, had the honor of delivering Scott’s very first sucker punch to the midsection. It was the only punch Albert bestowed on Scott Garrett Lancer that day or any day after. Once Scott moved past the surprise of the hit and caught his breath, he proceeded to beat the living daylights out of foolish Albert.
The memory came flooding back as Scott watched Phillip Westcott, proprietor of the Westcott Vineyards, seat himself at their table. Focusing his thoughts back to the present, Scott swore this would be the last time today - or any day in the future - Harlan Garrett caught his grandson off guard to deliver a mental sucker punch. Enough was enough.
Extending his hand again, Westcott continued. “We agreed to meet after the holidays - little did I realize it would be in Boston.”
”Sir.” Placing his menu aside, Scott rose to tower over the gentleman sitting to his right. ”This is an unexpected pleasure.” Forcing the proper greeting of standing to welcome a table guest provided the awkward moment Scott had intended. Rising, the two older gentlemen followed his lead.
”Well, now.” Phillip Westcott shook the hand of his younger dinner host. ”It appears my evening’s invitation wasn't discussed. I’ll guess growing up you hated surprise birthday parties.”
Scott confirmed with a nod. ”I did. However, my grandfather insisted on them. He enjoys having secrets.”
Before a rebuttal could be uttered from the Garrett patriarch, Westcott jumped in. ”I despise surprises.” His smile appeared genuine. “I prefer to have a handle on a situation. I'm thinking you do too.”
”Then, sir,” Scott gestured for his guest to be seated. “I suggest we get our hands on these menus.” Masking his apprehension with a jest seemed successful as Westcott chuckled while reclaiming his chair. However, Scott’s humor fell short of tickling his grandfather's funny bone.
A brief punctuated silence, created by quiet studies of the Parker House food selections, ruled the table until Scott’s next observation interrupted. “I'm curious, Mr. Westcott, that you didn't mention your acquaintance with my grandfather in any of our correspondences.”
“Scott-eeeeee.” Past history had taught Scott the length of pronouncing Scotty coincided with the degree of his grandfather's irritation. “Let the man have a moment to decide on what to eat before you start questioning him.”
“With all due respect, sir, it was a statement - not an inquiry.” Scott detected a hint of steam rising from behind the menu currently hiding Harlan’s face - it could have come from the man’s ears or the hot towels recently delivered to their table. ‘I should feel guilty for acting like a horse’s ass - but I don’t.’ A faint satisfied grin surfaced.
“Your grandson’s comment is perfectly understandable, Harlan, and my taste buds decided on a sirloin steak five minutes ago. Good to see the Parker House is allowing a few California wines the privilege of appearing on their list.” Westcott shot a wink in Scott’s direction. “Maybe in time we can convince these stuffy Bostonians a native vino isn't the brew of western heathens.” Setting down the menu, he met Scott’s gaze head-on. “I won’t give you an answer, young man, since you never asked a question. However, I’ll offer your statement an explanation. I never associated the gentleman Scott Lancer with the childhood friend Harlan Garrett. What reason would I have? My only knowledge of you came from words on a piece of paper. Your grandfather and I had lost touch after our youthful days of mischief. It took that Pinkerton man...what was his name again, Harlan?”
“Patrick Culhane.” Scott noticed the name now had an edge of broken glass when spoken by his grandfather. Evidently, the sting of Culhane’s expense bill still remained.
“Culhane. Yes. He came stomping through the vineyard one day to hand over a letter from one Mr. Harlan Garrett.” Westcott shook his head. “It must have taken some effort to find me.”
Scott nodded. “They’re good at that.”
“Pardon?”
“Pinkerton men. They’re good at finding people.” Scott appreciated Phillip Westcott's candor which matched the frank, honest cadence in the man’s letters. A refreshing change from his grandfather's slanted versions of the truth.
Phillip studied his empty wine glass as if he intended to critique its invisible contents. “I'm surrounded by grape vines - reading a letter from a man I hadn’t heard from since the day I left Boston - informing me it’s his grandson who is the interested investor. I’m sure you can imagine my...” Westcott turned his attention to his forgotten childhood friend.
Harlan’s soft smile invited forgiveness. “And which one of you gentlemen will be the first to admonish an old man who still enjoys a good surprise?” A slight chill invaded his warm eyes while watching his grandson’s hand slowly raise as if answering the posed question.
Scott held the old man’s intent look before signaling the waiter stationed behind them to approach. “A bottle of the California Aliso Angelien - wait. Make it two.” Rubbing his hands together, his enthusiastic response had the underlying tone of sarcasm only his grandfather could identify. “I think we can all agree we never outgrow the thrill of a good surprise.”
The dinner's first uncorking provided not only a satisfactory pairing with top quality beef but also enhanced the entertaining stories which introduced Scott to a Harlan Garrett he never knew.
“Emily McFergerson. She stalked your grandfather like a lioness on the Serengeti.”
“Dear God.” Harlan sputtered on a sip of wine. “The woman was relentless. I wonder whatever happened to the girl?”
“She never recovered from your rejection. Joined a convent.” Phillip Westcott grinned as he carved another bite from his steak. “Did you know Scott...please, this evening demands first name basis...”
Scott nodded in agreement.
“Excellent. Did you know Harlan and I both courted your grandmother?”
“No, sir...Phillip...I didn’t.”
Westcott leaned back from his meal. “Pearlette Kehoe - eloquent, spirited, beautiful. And intelligent - why she picked your grandfather --.”
“Don't listen to him, Scotty. It was God’s answer to my prayers which gave me a yes to my marriage proposal.”
Westcott’s eyes twinkled. “Harlan! Here I thought you were praying for the poor and underprivileged.”
“Don't sit there, Phillip, and tell me it wasn't an act of God which blessed you with Lydia.”
“It’s true. God blessed me.” Phillip’s sigh reflected the sadness that continued to live deep within the man. “Adventurous Lydia. She agreed to move our family across the country and proceeded to pour her heart and soul into the California land. She was...correction...is Westcott Vineyards, Scott.” Phillip raised his glass to introduce a melancholy toast. ”Pearlett Garrett - Lydia Westcott -”
”Katherine Garrett.” Scott’s glass joined the others held high to make three. No other words were needed.
It was Harlan who broke the solemn silence. ”Now, let’s talk about the future - Kinsey Rose Furlong.” Motioning for the waiter, the second cork popped.
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