Scott couldn’t remember names. His brain readily retained numbers and calculations. Regurgitation of Latin verse didn't break a sweat on the brow. Emerson quotes weaved in and out of his comments like a fine tapestry. However, could he recall the names of individuals he'd met only once or twice? Maddening. And introductions among a room full of strangers? Downright overwhelming.
Scott’s affliction with name recollection haunted him early in life. Harlan expected his young grandson to properly address the domestic help as they scurried about from room to room. Unfortunately, the turnover of stewards, maids and valets in the Garrett household was more frequent than that of customers patronizing Mrs. Lake’s brothel on Endicott.
Luckily, Winnie suggested a strategy that even a young boy of seven could execute.
“Ah, ScottyGarrett, when ye be meetin’ someone for the first time, listen to their name and look at their face. Then bless ‘em with an imaginary name yer noggin’ can remember so to help yer mouth say their real name.”
It worked. Mr. Snyder, who occasionally drove the Garrett carriage, was knighted Sir Snot Drip Snyder due to the man’s ever-present cold. Funny-smelling Mrs. Chambers, a maid, received the prestigious title of Madame Chamber Pot.
Later, when attending debutante balls entered Scott’s social duties, Winnie’s strategy continued. No longer was it a struggle to place a young lady’s face with a name. He waltzed away the evenings with charming dance partners such as Miss Gabby Gracie Seddon, Miss Toothy Tressie McKinnon or Miss Vivacious Violet Bowery.
Truth be told, Scott never needed assistance in remembering Miss Bowery’s name.
Only once did Scott fail to make the name correction between his brain and his mouth. He vocally hailed Wilbraham Academy Headmaster Paugherd as Headmaster Pighead. The stinging reprimand for the faux pas served as a lasting reminder to always pause before opening the mouth to avoid an insertion of a foot.
Standing on Sacramento’s North Street walk, Scott placed his hands on hips and sighed. “Welcome to Leland Stanford’s humble abode.” Several men milled about on a perfectly manicured front lawn or conversed on the massive double staircase leading to intricately carved oak doors. Just the sight of the mansion before him could stall a man’s brain. Winnie’s solution would certainly come in handy today.
Seth squinted upwards at the home’s recently added fourth floor. “I wonder if President Grant’s on the guest list?” .
“He is. His name appears right after God’s.”
“After? I’m surprised old Ulysses would stand for that.”
“Alphabetical order. Couldn’t be helped.” Scott shot his business partner a sideways glance and a grin.
A snorted laugh ushered in Seth’s opinion. “Sort of takes the guesswork out of where Westcott is slated. Although, it doesn’t take alphabetical order to land my backside at the bottom.”
“Don’t draw hasty conclusions. Where that delivered case of Westcott vino landed will speak louder than any guest list.” Scott nodded towards a photographer preparing his equipment. “Are we making history today or just the front page of Sacramento Daily Union?”
“I’m reserving my answer on the outcome of the aforementioned case of vino.” Seth slapped Scott on the back. “Let me introduce you to a few of our esteemed colleagues, business partner.”
In his customary casual demeanor, Seth reconnected with his fellow vignerons while presenting Mr. Scott Lancer - A Westcott Winery investor and good friend. As Scott shook hands, a hairline ebbed on Mr. Baldwin and a nose hooked on Mr. Hawk. The introductions continued while the mental list of surnames grew.
Scott’s narrowed eyes settled halfway up the mansion’s stair steps on two men deep in conversation. Winnie’s word reference tool would not be necessary in recalling their names - Leland Stanford and George West. “At least one meeting is well underway.”
Following Scott’s gaze, Seth focused on the recent observation. “What’s the saying? Thick as thieves?”
A waggish grin played across Scott’s face as he knuckle tapped Westcott on the upper arm. “Let’s say you and I test the validity of another saying - honor amongst thieves. Follow me.”
Ascending the stairs, Scott flanked the El Pinal owner on his right - occupying the same wide step. “Mr. West. Ah, wait. Old Bostonian habits.” An apologetic palm rested on his chest. “Forgive me. George.”
It took a moment for West’s mustache to upturn its handlebar ends. The displeasure of his interrupted private conversation was obvious. “Scott. The timing of your arrival is -”
“As requested.” Scott’s offered handshake briefly experienced rejection from the man in front of him.
“Yes, of course.” George’s eyes slanted downward to the step below. “Westcott.”
A nod of his head enhanced Seth’s congenial appearance. “Geooooorge.”
“Westcott?” Their host had finally located his voice. “Westcott Winery and Vineyards? George, you’ve been remiss in your introductions.” A hand was offered. “Leland Stanford.”
Even though Stanford stood on the step above, his shorter stature brought him near eye level with Scott. “Sir. Scott Lancer. Thank you for your gracious hospitality.”
Handshakes were exchanged. Side-stepping, Scott made room for his friend.
Seth extended his hand. “Seth Westcott. It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I agree with my associate’s view of your hospitality - greatly appreciated.”
“By God, gentlemen, it’s I who am appreciative. Mrs. Stanford served a bottle or two of the fine vintage you had delivered at last night’s dinner party. The arrangement couldn't have been better.” Leland leaned in. “Saved my ass for not checking the cellar’s inventory.” Laughing, Stanford enjoyed his shared secret. “Jane couldn't stop raving over how well it paired with the duck. Come. Meet her.”
“Leland. The photographer.” West’s voice possessed the slight whine of a spoiled child.
“The photographer will wait, George. Don’t look so glum.” Stanford’s attention returned to Westcott. “I won’t deny my wife the opportunity to thank these young men personally.”
Scott cleared his throat. “Sir, I'm simply an investor. Seth is the gentleman who deserves the accolades for his family’s vineyard. With all due respect, I'll remain behind to converse with Mr. West. I believe we have some catching up to do.”
“Of course, Mr. Lancer! Plenty of time for the official meet and greet. Westcott! This way, sir!”
Stanford possessed contagious enthusiasm as he and Seth bounded up the steps. Unfortunately, George West’s monotone inflection indicated he was currently immuned. “I underestimated you, Scott. A perfectly timed complimentary case of Westcott wine delivered to the host’s home. You are indeed Harlan Garrett’s grandson.”
Even though perfectly timed was, in fact, dumb luck, Scott chose to take credit for it. “Life is a kind of chess, with struggle, competition, good and ill events. If memory serves me correctly, you were quoting Ben Franklin as we parted ways at El Pinal.”
George slowly nodded. “I remember. I believe I expressed hope that if we became competitors we would find a way to remain friends.” The man half-turned from Scott to view the members gathering for a photograph. “You strike me as a worthy opponent, Lancer. We must find the time in the near future for that game of chess.”
Scott stooped slightly to speak into West’s ear with a lowered voice. “Sir, that game has already begun.”
Before George could utter a response, Leland Stanford’s announcement bellowed from above. “Let’s get this damn photograph over with and on to some fruitful discussions.”
Climbing the steps as Stanford descended, Scott signaled Seth to remain at the top and joined him. “Let’s seize the high ground for the front page. How is the lovely Mrs. Stanford?”
“Charming, but rather demanding. She’s insisting on several cases of Westcott wine to be delivered here by the end of the week.” A sly grin spread across Seth’s face. “She’d like to feature it at the association’s gala ball.”
“Well, now ...“ Scott crossed his arms and matched Westcott’s smile. “It appears history is being made today.”
“Gentlemen! Please! Look this way!” The photographer held up his tray and lit it.
Flash. Pop.
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