And evermore in the world is this marvelous balance of beauty and disgust, magnificence and rats. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
“A Boneshaker.” Grasping the handlebar to steady it, Scott scrutinized the contraption of a metal frame, pedals and iron-rimmed wheels. Its doppelgänger leaned against the ornate gate of Emily’s small garden. Correction. Two Boneshakers. Bad sign.
“Velocipede. The correct term is Velocipede.”
Knuckles rapped the questionable mode of transportation’s hard wooden triangular seat. “Velocipede. Latin for damaged derrière.”
“Where’s your adventurous nature, Mr. Lancer?”
“Sitting in a buggy at the livery stable, Miss Browning.” Tossing a mischievous wink over his shoulder, Scott straddled Emily’s choice of travel to their afternoon picnic by the river. “May I ask how you acquired two bustle busters?”
“A young entrepreneur working out of the blacksmith shop bought several in San Francisco. For a reasonable fee, he rents them for a day’s excursion.”
“I see.” Scott turned the handlebars left and then right, judging the ease in the steering. “This enterprising lad may need to continue pumping a smithy’s baffles in order to eat.”
“The gent hopes the Velocipede’s popularity catches on as it has in London and Paris.”
A mental note was made to warn Seth of the possible challenge other than female emporiums his honeymoon abroad could present. “How many gentlemen callers have you dispatched on one of these? Better yet, how many survived to tell the tale?”
“Are you familiar with the term, maiden voyage, sir?”
“I am.” Question answered. Scott was the little lady’s first unsuspecting volunteer.
“Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air.” A teasing smile danced accompaniment to Emily’s flashing eyes.
“I’m also aware of when Emerson’s words of wisdom are turned into a dare.”
“The trick in maintaining balance is to keep moving.”
Scott cocked an eyebrow at the offered expertise. “And the trick to stopping?”
“Simply reverse your pedaling.” Spoken confidence shunned any possibility of a broken neck.
Adjusting the newsboy cap he’d opted over a Stetson, Scott squinted down the narrow alleyway leading to K Street while placing boot to pedal. “All right, Lancer, let’s see what culture can do to a man’s dignity.” Pushing off resulted in a wobbly journey of a few feet with the sensation of navigating a washboard. The rider’s angled splayed leg found footing and halted the failed demonstration of equilibrium.
“If at first, you don’t succeed, sir, try again. Then your courage should appear. For if you persevere, you will conquer, never fear.”
His picnic companion’s playful encouragement from W. E. Hickson dipped Scott’s chin with a grin. Decision made. The ostriches would be saddled for Miss Browning’s first visit to the ranch.
Exhaled puffed cheeks spurred resolution while he grasped the handlebars for a second attempt that produced surprising results. Tottery lessened, allowing a better feel for the rhythm of pedaling and maintaining an upright forward motion. Stopping proved formidable; however, no innocent Sacramento bystanders were injured during the rookie rider's learning process. A few more successful backstreet traverses received an ovation from the lovely audience of one.
“Bravo! Bravo! Well done!”
Emily’s contagious enthusiasm echoed down the alley, greeting her knight in shining armor as he brought his metal steed to a sliding finish. Flipping off his cap, Scott bowed in appreciation of the lady’s expressed admiration.
The Arcade’s head chef presented one of two picnic baskets. “Precious cargo, sir.” With leather straps, Emily tied the basket to a small metal platform the blacksmith had added behind the Boneshaker’s seat. “You’re transporting the vino. Steer clear of bumps and ruts.”
“Right.” The odds of a broken bottle would provide humorous headlines for the Sacramento Reporter.
VELOCIPEDE CALAMITY
A Hansel and Gretel trail of wine
led authorities to the riverbank
where an unidentified man
plummeted to his watery death.
Foul play ruled out. Lack of proper reverse pedaling held responsible
for the gent’s untimely demise.
NOTICE
The Christian Women’s Temperance League
will hold a rally this Saturday along
the banks of the Sacramento River.
Keynote Address:
“Velocipedes,Vino,Victims”
All are welcome.
********
Tell me, ScottyGarrett, what has the Good Lord blessed ye with this fine day?
Well, Winnie, I’d say the Good Lord has blessed me with the sunshine above, a beautiful woman at my side and an uncorked bottle of wine.
Drink the wild air, me lad. Drink the wild air.
Yes, ma’am.
“Westcott Winery of California.” Scott poured a goblet of the dark red liquid that had survived his bi-wheeled maiden voyage and offered it to the lovely lady. “Miss Emily Browning has exceptionally good taste.”
“Yes she does, which, I might add, agrees with other ever-growing favorable opinions being spoken from the valleys to the Pacific regarding Westcott vineyards.”
“The vineyard’s recent popularity is a fine example that Californians, when given the opportunity, proudly embrace what their land provides.” Scott filled his glass. “It’s now convincing Easterners fine wines don’t necessarily have to sail across the Atlantic.”
“Traditional thinking is difficult to conquer.” Dappled sun filtering through a canopy of oak leaves kissed the napkin-wrapped delicacies set out from the picnic baskets. “Fear, anger, annoyance, envy… so many emotions can get in the way when people struggle with accepting change.”
Sensing the lady’s observation may no longer refer to wine, Scott took a chance. “I imagine the first time a woman donning a torque enters an establishment’s kitchen -”
“Is much like a dandy in a derby first setting foot on a Western cattle ranch.” Emily smiled and selected a lobster canapé. “Yes?”
“No.”
“Pardon? The gentleman has lost his conviction in his sampling of crustaceans? Turn in your blue ribbon, sir.”
“Oh, this gentleman still has culinary conviction. The no is for a dandy in the derby branding a steer. His conviction diminishes when compared to the needed conviction of a determined woman being opposed by the close-minded who are eager to point out her proper place in society is not as a successful chef.” Scott popped a canapé in his mouth and savored perfection. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You are not. Nevertheless, let’s not sell the steer short on his close-mindedness of an impending singeing situation.” A grin passed an apple. “Tell me I’m wrong?”
Laughter accepted the fruit. “The lady is quite accurate. They are an obstinate bunch.” Setting his glass aside, Scott snagged a pen knife from his back pocket and began to peel the apple’s skin in one continuous spiral.
“A skilled swordsman!” Emily watched the peel elongate unbroken. “I’m guessing that blade has been with you since boyhood.”
“My grandfather presented it to me when I was eight years old. He said Scotty, a man should always carry a pocket knife. I was elated he’d called me a man.” The memory creased a smirk. “So, I promptly went out and impaled my foot playing mumbly peg.”
Emily’s raised linen napkin to her lips did little to hide the snorted chuckle from her nose.
“I was in Dutch with him for a week while I limped around.” The smirk morphed into a smile. “He, in turn, painfully endured Grandmother’s scowl for giving me the knife in the first place.”
“Your childhood sounds rather normal.”
Normal? Scott’s apple peeling slowed while deciding on his response.
Emily decided for him. “I lost both my parents in ‘54 to the cholera outbreak.”
The knife halted. She’d made reference to being orphaned, but in '54? My God, she was so young. Focus raised and settled on Emily’s face. Expecting a melancholy expression, Scott instead viewed only a touch of sadness in her eyes. “Honey, I’m sorry -”
“No, please.” A hand waved off any additional condolences. “I recall very little of the time. A blessing, I suppose.”
Scott nodded. He’d been sequestered inside the Garrett brownstone to avoid the monster outside that turned faces blue and choked the life from its prey. Bodysnatchers and fanged demons from penny dreadfuls had become very real the day cholera struck Boston.
“I do remember a neighbor handing me over to a tall man with a kind smile - a Children's Aid Society agent. Once dressed in new clothing and given a Bible, I boarded the Mercy Train and eventually Iowa City became what I still consider to be my childhood home.”
“And Sacramento?” The pen knife completed its mission with the apple peel landing on the picnic blanket in one unbroken strip.
“Oh, there is much to consider here.” Emily plucked the apple peel from the blanket and stood. “Including this charming, adventurous man I’ve met.” Closing her eyes, the fruit spiral traveled over the shoulder of a little girl from Iowa City who now joined the picnic for a game. “Apple peel, apple peel, please reveal the first initial of my true love.” Turning around, Emily studied the twists and turns of a possible letter the tossed peel had created. “Hmmm. What do I see?”
Rising, Scott stood beside the seeker of true love and viewed the apple skin with a query. “The charming man’s name is Xavier?” Exaggerated confusion struggled to cloak the joke.
A head tilted upwards with a smile. “Perhaps we need to peel another apple, Mr. Lancer.”
“Wait.” Further scrutiny ensued. “I believe, Miss Browning -” Leaning down brought Scott’s whispering lips to Emily’s. “Another apple will be unnecessary.”
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