Calculated Rascality

“Scotty! There you are, my boy! I thought perhaps we'd be traveling onward before having the opportunity to wish you a good morning.”

Returning to the hotel undetected was not to be. The transportation with brightly painted red wheels that only a few days ago had delivered Scott, Emily and a Boneshaker to the vineyards now sat in front of the Stockton lodging; a smiling Harlan Garrett hailing his grandson from its cushioned bench seat as Phillip Westcott effortlessly clambered aboard to take the reins.

Ah, ScottyGarrett, tell me, what has the Good Lord blessed us with on this lovely sun-touched mornin’?

Well, Winnie - An eyebrow cocked as a package of dime store novels was held casually to the side - I’d say he’s blessed us with two old men who can drink me under the table. Approaching the buckboard, Scott swore he heard his dear friend’s mirthful laughter filter down from St. Peter’s pearly gates.

“How are you feeling, son?” A sportive grin tickling the Westcott patriarch’s mouth suggested he already knew the answer. The impish crinkles dancing from the corners of his eyes confirmed it.

Diplomatically dodging the obvious seemed prudent. “I think I’ll be in a better position to answer your question after a strong cup of coffee.”

“My grandson’s peaky complexion is currently in the dining room testing out the exact same theory as yours and failing miserably.” 

Longevous guffaws and winks nudged Scott into an accepting nod that diplomacy and dodging were also failing miserably. “It is a fact. Great minds think alike, but fools seldom differ.” 

“Ah, but more importantly… ” Harlan’s raised index finger pointed toward the heavens with an authoritative wag. “Hell hath no fury -”

“Like my little cousin’s.” Scott’s half grin maneuvered past the remaining remnants of his dull headache. “Not a direct quote but, nonetheless, an accurate one.”

“Ho-ho, Scotty, not to worry. I’ll smooth out any possible wrinkles lying in wait with a disapproving bride-to-be.” Palms smoothed wrinkles of a different kind on pant legs. “Phillip, at your convenience, shall we proceed?”

As the elderly statesmen bounced down Stockton’s main street, Scott’s peripheral vision captured his father’s profile at his side, repeating what was becoming the question-of-the-day. “How are you feeling, son?”

“Well, sir, considering Grandfather’s flat iron for Kinsey’s wrinkled disapproval will no doubt turn into a branding iron for Seth’s hungover backside I’d have to say… ” A pinched pout painstakingly pondered over the departing buckboard’s dust trail slowly settling in the street. “Worried.”

“I’ll catch up and cut the head off the Rattler before he strikes.”

“A figure of speech, I hope.”

Silence spoke of no guarantees. Instead, Murdoch produced from a coat pocket his offering of a silver-flasked countermeasure. “Hair of the dog.” 

Entering the hotel, Scott spotted his friend as reported sitting in the dining room with a coffee pot being his current breakfast companion. There was no denying the groom did look rather indisposed. 

Ah, yes. The groom. 

It had been on a train carrying the two business partners to the Viticulturist Conference in Sacramento when Seth first mentioned his intentions. Scott’s memory of that moment weaved in and revisited. 

*********

“May I have your permission to court Miss Furlong?”

The portfolio in Scott’s hand hesitated a moment before continuing its journey to a leather valise. Taking into account the viewed interactions between his cousin and Seth, the direct question was only mildly surprising. A sly smile crossed his face. “It’s not my permission you need.”

“According to Kinsey I do.” Westcott sat back. “I gather she’s estranged from her parents. A crowbar couldn’t pry her mouth open for a conversation on the reason. Although I’m insisting the little lady and I talk to your father once she’s done being madder than a wet hen at him.” Seth’s no nonsense inflection emphasized his seriousness on the subject. “She has the utmost respect for your guidance. I have a tendency to agree with her. So, sir, with your permission?”

The train’s low whistle announced the upcoming arrival in Sacramento. Scott buckled the closure on his bag.

“Sir, you have my permission.” As a joshing gesture, Scott leaned forward to deliver a friendly slap to the man’s shoulder. “God help you, Westcott.”

**********

A smile seated Scott across from Westcott, while J. S. Lance’s bundled authoring debut did the same in the additional vacant chair. Snagging an empty mug, the table’s latest arriving guest waited patiently to be acknowledged.

Seth’s brow arched while his finger pointed to the coffee pot.

A nod endorsed the questioning suggestion.

Dark brew poured.

Sip.

Scott’s hand produced a silver flask and gestured toward Westcott’s cup.

A nod permitted the possible proposal.

Medicinal elixir sloshed.

Sip.

Seth’s digit then directed attention to the brown paper-wrapped dime novels joining them for recuperating coffee.

“Light reading.”

A bob of the head from Westcott indicated no further information was required. Rather, effort to speak focused on a more pressing query. “Can you explain to me how two gray-haired grandfathers can consume large amounts of celebratory libations and be unaffected the next morning?”

“Marinated constitutions.” Sip. “They started drinking at the age of five.” 

“I’d show my appreciation for your witticism by laughing, however, my brain would explode.” The groom crossed his arms, leaned his head back and searched for wisdom written on the room’s ceiling. “Best pass that flask over my cup one more time.”

After obliging the request, Scott, who wasn’t one to turn down sound medical advice from the old country, fortified his own mug as well.

*********

“My God. The little lady and her compadres have outdone themselves.”

Returning to the vineyard as the aftereffects of a stag party were finally defeated, Seth’s exclamation expressing his astoundment matched that of Scott’s. The transformation of the Westcott hacienda’s courtyard was nothing short of -

How would Kinsey put it? Scott grinned. “Extraordinary.”

Papel picado banners, fluttering in a soft breeze, crisscrossed overhead. Without question it was Maria who had worked weeks cutting the delicate designs in cream-colored tissue paper. However, it would be no surprise to discover Westcott’s version of a mother hen, Isabella, had lent a hand.

Clearly, Teresa’s eye for beauty had arranged scented mock orange and magnolia blossoms in glazed pottery centerpieces which accompanied fine china place settings on lace-covered tables; all inviting guests to take their seats.

Lanterns hanging from tree branches and candles gracing the courtyard's stucco wall suggested wedding celebrations would continue long after the sun gave up its day.

The hacienda’s grape arbor, much like its builder Phillip Westcott, had aged and weathered over the years but still stood strong. Yards of looping silk ribbon now graced the gnarled vines and clusters of grapes spared from the harvest; a fitting backdrop for the couple as they exchanged their vows.

Beyond the courtyard venue sat the wooden table and chairs where, not that long ago, the elder Westcott and Scott had sat having a serious and, at times, somewhat tense discussion regarding Lancer’s investment intentions. Although today, the table presented a more joyous scene of family anticipating tomorrow’s event.

“Seth!” Kinsey was the first to spot the two remaining wedding party members’ return. Running to the man who would soon be her husband, she stopped short and cross-examined. “Tell me, sir, have you been a rascal?”

Westcott’s index finger and thumb on a raised hand measured out about an inch of plausible mischief as a grin spread across his face. “Still am.” Seth’s arms gathered up the little lady for a deep kiss. Lengthy forgiveness ensued, spurred on by the cheers and ovations from their small courtyard audience.

Donning what he hoped would be a guiltless persona, Scott approached Emily who stood joining in on the applause for the current public display of affection. “Miss Browning.”

“Ah, Mr. Lancer.” A skeptic’s eye greeted the best man. “And what amount of rascality are you willing to confess?”

Following Seth’s lead, Scott’s thumb and index finger calculated a small amount which gradually widened to indicate more.

“I see.” Mock skepticism also widened.

Spotting Jelly’s wedding present to Kinsey now properly hung from a large branch of a distant oak tree, Scott offered a suggestion. “May I plead my case at yonder porch swing?” Feeling the softness of Emily’s hand in his, the defendant realized how much he’d missed this woman’s touch.