With his fork, Scott moved the last few crumbs of his cake around on the plate while listening to fragments of conversations weave their way through his own thoughts.
“John Charles.”
“No.”
“John Robert.”
“No.”
“John Sigmund.”
“No.”
Placing the fork in the middle of his plate, Scott rose to find Murdoch, leaving his little brother behind, outnumbered by females, two to one. The cake wasn’t the only thing being served up this evening.
The elder son headed towards the one place he was certain to find his father. It would be the large arched window that treated an observer to a view of the land…the land, which was the inspiration for the hacienda’s architect years ago.
Murdoch, holding his familiar snifter of scotch, stood brooding. Scott entertained the thought of pouring himself a drink; Lord knows the situation called for one. However, considering thirty minutes earlier he had opted for the childhood comforts of cake and a cold glass of milk, he doubted his stomach would appreciate mixing the past with the present. Scott chose to settle in a comfortable chair predicting the wait would not last long.
Acknowledging his son had entered the room, Murdoch did not turn around but instead made what Scott felt was a very obvious observation.
“That little girl is the most pretentious, obstinate, willful, unmanageable, mulish, cheeky, ill-mannered, audacious, meddling, brazen, child I have ever met.”
Scott smiled, “She’s also stubborn, spoiled, and overindulged.”
Murdoch turned to address his son. “And whose fault is that?”
“Well, Sir, I’m taking a guess and saying those last three attributes are my fault.”
Refreshing his drink, the patriarch’s future plans were revealed. “I’m going to nail that young lady’s backside to the barn door.”
Scott raised his eyebrows. ‘My father is quoting Jelly. Talk about desperate times.’
“Literally, Scott. I’m nailing her to the barn door.”
“Agreed. I’ll hold the hammer. Anyone who is so presumptuous to compose a letter under false pretenses by inviting an individual to the home of someone knowing that someone has no desire to reconnect with said individual, yet, disregards the wishes of all involved and sends the letter…well…his or her backside should be nailed to the barn door. Literally.”
Murdoch frowned. “My letter to Melbourne can't be compared to Kinsey’s letter to Boston.”
“No truer words were spoken. Kinsey signed her own name to her letter.”
Scott knew he was taking a risk of retribution with his last statement but this conversation needed to turn around. It was either going to de-escalate or continue heading south.
As Murdoch returned to his position by the window, Scott took the opportunity to continue. “Kinsey and Winnie grew close during our time in Boston. Like you, Kinsey wants to see reconnections made. How does she go about doing it? Well, she looks to the man she sees as a father figure, a role model and follows suit. If a letter worked for him then why wouldn’t it work for her?”
Murdoch remained silent as Scott remained patient.
“Dear God Almighty. Winifred McLoughlin.”
Scott smiled. “She’s staying five days. One can endure hellfire for five days. I believe a wise man told me that before the arrival of my stubborn, spoiled, overindulged, cousin. The only advice I would offer is to steer clear of poker games.”
Silence.
“Sir, I can report Winnie has mellowed slightly in her old age.”
“A rhino very rarely mellows with age. Is the rattlesnake coming with her?”
“Grandfather will be remaining in Boston.”
Silence.
“I still want to have a talk with that little lady."
Returning to the kitchen, Scott found Kinsey eager to discuss the progress with Johnny’s middle name.
“That can wait. Right now, Murdoch wants to speak with you.”
“Oh? Regarding?”
“The current temperature in Hades.”
San Joaquin Valley, California
Murdoch called his tune for almost an hour leaving my cousin with the expression of a severely scolded ten-year-old who was fortunate to have avoided her father’s knee. Observing the dressing-down Kinsey received, I wondered what if Johnny or I had discussed the climate in Hades. Our dance would have definitely required a few more steps. I believe I’ll mention this the next time I hear the battle cry of “double standard”.
~S.
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