A welcomed companion stepped out of his life since his return from the San Joaquin vineyards. Its name - “A Good Night’s Sleep.”
Considering the exhaustion his father’s roster of tasks created at the end of each day, Scott’s bewilderment continued when sleep kept deciding to leave during the middle of each night. As “sleep” evaporated, “a thought” gladly took its place and stayed until daybreak. The nightly intruders varied in their names - “Kinsey’s Welfare,” “Harlan’s Meddling,” “Johnny’s Disappearing Act” - the list seemed endless.
Tonight would be no different. Lying on his back with his hands behind his head, Scott reluctantly bid so long to sleep as he watched the full moon cast familiar shadows through his bedroom window. His pocket watch on the bedside table offered no surprise when its hands displayed half past two. However, an eyebrow did raise as the current thought arrived - “The Last Piece of Chocolate Cake.”
Teresa’s chocolate cake held the honor of being the best damn cake in the entire San Joaquin Valley. Its chocolatey goodness won county fair blue ribbons, earned highest bids at auctions, and generated jealousy in the most devout Christian woman.
‘Add “robbing a man of his sleep” to the list.’ While the moonlight slowly traveled across the opposite bedroom wall, Scott's obsession grew.
‘Dammit.’
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. He may not have the ability to stop his grandfather’s manipulations, keep track of his younger brother, or protect his little cousin from every bad card life dealt out but, by God, he did have the power to eat that last piece of chocolate cake patiently waiting for him in the kitchen.
The full moon provided adequate lighting for Scott’s determined strides across the room. Grasping the doorknob, he glanced down and stopped.
‘Oh.’ Even in the middle of the night, a shred of decorum should be considered.
Snagging a towel hanging from the door’s hook, Scott wrapped it around his waist
and held the two corners securely with his hand. Modest coverage - sort of. Well...all one needed for a brief kitchen raid and a quick return. At this hour the rest of the house slumbered. A slim chance, indeed, of an encounter with nothing more than a field mouse. Playing the odds, Scott turned the doorknob.
Stepping out from his room, he contemplated the obstacle course between him and the last piece of chocolate cake. Three moaning hallway floorboards - one on his immediate left, two more five paces down and on the right. Next, creaking stair steps - numbers four and seven. Finally, one squeaky door hinge leading to the kitchen. Scott’s devilish grin signaled confidence. ‘Child’s play.’
Upon entering the kitchen, he took a moment to bask in the glory of being undetected. With his free hand, Scott retrieved a fork to place beside Teresa’s sweet slice of heaven proudly displayed on a fine china plate. With the objective now in his possession, another thought surfaced - one from his youth. His eyes drifted to the icebox. ‘A cold glass of milk.’ How could one possibly enjoy a piece of chocolate cake without the accompanying cold glass of milk? Unheard of.
‘Ah, ScottyGarrett. Big mouthfuls often choke.’ “Infinite wisdom not required at the moment, Winnie, thank you.”
Relinquishing the coveted piece of cake to the table, a glass now took its place in Scott’s hand as he moved to the icebox to open the-
His gaze first fell on his right hand holding a glass, shifted to his left hand gripping the towel around his waist and then focused on the closed icebox door. Without asking permission, the left hand chose to solve the problem by tossing the adequate coverage across the table to land on a kitchen chair. Free of the cumbersome towel it could now open the icebox.
Scott froze. The fourth step on the stairs spoke. Uncertain if he heard correctly, he slowly turned his head, neck muscles straining, toward the kitchen door. The seventh step speaking louder than the fourth put his doubt to rest.
‘Another night raider is afoot! My kingdom for a pair of pants.’
Quick action took over as a passing cold draft presented itself to Scott in places it normally didn’t touch. Calculating the seconds to retrieve the discarded towel versus hiding in the nearby pantry, a snap decision was made. One creaking hinged door opened while another one shut. A cautious look out the small pantry window revealed the identity of the intruder.
‘Kinsey.’ Scott resisted the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes - certain any movement could jeopardize his position.
His little cousin's midnight strolls due to bad dreams had caught him off guard at first, but soon her interrupted evenings became common occurrences. Scott discovered a little brandy slipped into a mug of warm milk assisted in her return to sleep but the liquor never loosened her tongue to share details of the dreams. He felt relief they’d recently disappeared - until tonight. ‘Skip the milk, Freckles, and get the brandy. And then, for the love of God, go back to bed.’
Mental advice ignored, Kinsey headed to the icebox, no doubt for the same reason Scott had moments ago. In a single motion, her one hand retrieved the milk pitcher while the other absentmindedly wrapped fingers around the glass he'd left behind on the wooden counter. Milk briefly splashed into the glass and then stopped. Blue eyes from the pantry nervously watched brown eyes scrutinizing the glass before sliding their gaze to the counter.
‘Damn Kinsey’s suspicious nature.’ Scott decided he would be the one skipping the milk and moving directly to the brandy to celebrate the joyous reunion between him and his towel - God willing.
Seconds - which Scott determined as hours when not breathing - passed. Finally, his cousin's shrugged shoulders and a filled milk glass inspired euphoria of soon escaping the cramped flour and spice-infested prison.
Hope abruptly vanished when Kinsey’s inquisitive gaze fell on the last piece of chocolate cake.
‘No.’
She picked up Scott’s fork parked on the side of the fine china plate and held it in front of her face for close inspection.
‘No, honey. Drink your milk and go to bed.’
As if hearing him, Kinsey raised her glass and took a sip.
“That’s my piece of cake, half-pint.”
Johnny’s unexpected announcement caught both cousins off guard. Taking a step back from his vantage point, Scott briefly lost his balance. Bumping into the pantry’s free-standing shelves sent two of Maria’s spice cans tumbling off their high perch. Without thinking, he extended his arms allowing his right hand to snag one falling tin while the other container landed in his left. Exhaling slowly, Scott’s astonished expression transformed into a relieved smile. ‘Juggling skills come in mighty handy.’
During Scott’s pantry acrobatics, Kinsey’s reaction to Johnny’s abrupt statement differed greatly. Startled, the innocent swallow of milk caught in her throat making a red-faced, sputtering, gasping reaction unavoidable. Johnny’s immediate response to her rescue seemed necessary.
“Quit slapping me on my back! Johnny!”
“Stand still, darlin’. I’m saving your life.”
“Enough!” Pulling away from her savior’s grasp only resulted in spilling the remaining milk down the front of her nightgown. “Bollocks! Look what you did! Jesus Mary and Joseph. Bloodyalltahell. Hand me that.”
Scott’s eyes widened. ‘Not my towel.’
Snatching the towel, Johnny handed it over to the ungrateful damsel in distress. “You're welcome.
‘Crying over spilled milk just took on a whole new meaning.’ The pantry’s prisoner pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Does my brother know your mouth belongs in a bunkhouse?” Johnny maintained a stern facade while Kinsey dried off her milk-soaked nightwear.
“My cousin encourages me to express my opinions and independent thinking.”
“Is that so? Well, little girl, my brother would have plenty to say about your late night cussin’.”
“Not before my cousin dressed you down regarding your late night shenanigans.”
Scott smirked at his newly discovered ability to chastise without uttering a word.
“Why are you up so late, kid? Your night scares back?” Johnny sat down while placing the last piece of chocolate cake in front of himself. “And, as I said, this piece of cake is mine.”
“You reneged on that piece of cake by leaving the supper table - again - before it was served.” Seating herself opposite Johnny, Kinsey repositioned the fine china plate to her side of the table. “And since we're being inquisitive, John, what - or should I say who - is so important in town to keep you out until the wee hours?”
The piece of cake traveled back across the table to join Johnny’s sly grin. “None of your business, little lady.”
“You don't need to tell me, John. Her voice oozed smugness. “I already know.” The piece of cake made a return trip to the little cousin. “You’re keeping company with a lady of the evening.”
Scott’s quizzical look matched his younger brother’s when hearing Kinsey’s insightful declaration. ‘What did she say?’
“What did you say?” Teresa’s dessert revisited the inquirer.
“You heard me.” The cake didn't stay stationary for long. “You’re seeing a female with less than adequate moral standards.” Johnny’s expression remained unchanged, which seemed to urge Kinsey to explain further. “A loose woman. A tart. Harlot. Strumpet.”
Johnny’s boisterous laughter drowned out Scott’s snicker. “For a little lady who swears like a sailor you sure are havin’ a hard time saying the word whore.” His chuckling hung in the air as he reclaimed the last piece of chocolate cake. “Why my dear Kinsey Rose, sounds like jealousy is biting you in your behind.”
“I’m simply concerned for your welfare, Johnny. I read articles. I’m informed. These women carry diseases. Do you honestly want to see your manhood turn black and fall off?”
Scott rubbed his temples. ‘Tomorrow I raid her room to see what she’s reading.”
“Darlin’...” Johnny pushed the cake back across the table. Taking the fork, he placed it in her hand and then held on. “The only lady I’m seein’ is luck at nightly poker games. My winnings I’m holding onto for…” He smiled, standing. “...a rainy day.” Leaning over he kissed Kinsey’s cheek. “You let me know when you want to talk about those bad dreams.”
It took the sounds of one squeaky door hinge, two creaking steps, three moaning floorboards, and one bedroom door shutting before Kinsey moved from her contemplation of Johnny’s “rainy day.” Taking the fork she placed it back on the plate where she had originally found it. Retrieving a clean glass, it was filled with milk to accompany the cake. Picking up the towel, she shook it out, and draped over a chair back. A smile danced across her face. Stopping at the kitchen door, she paused before leaving.
“Goodnight, ScottyGarrett.”
Scott rolled his eyes, grinned, shook his head and whispered. “Goodnight, KinseyRose.”
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