“I dream of a better tomorrow where chickens can cross the road and not be questioned about their motives.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson
They didn’t speak. It wasn’t necessary. And even if words were required, Scott knew he’d fail to perfectly express his deep desire for the woman lying beside him without sounding like a babbling fool.
Her eyes. So enchanting were her hazel eyes with flecks of green and amber they stopped time for a man. Scott brushed a curled strand of hair from Emily’s forehead and smiled. His index finger gently continued its affectionate journey by tracing over her temple, across one cheekbone and, knowing it would release the lovely lady’s soft laugh, stopped to playfully tap the end of her nose.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Hazel eyes briefly crossed to view the unusual sound a nose had just made.
Her lips. Undaunted, the finger resumed its amorous path to rose-tinted lips which slightly parted at his touch, offering an invitation to linger for a moment, which Scott gladly accepted. Cradling Emily’s delicate chin, he moved to draw her near.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
“It’s only sleet hitting the window panes, my darling.” The breath of her whispered words introduced the rose-tinted lips to Scott’s.
Sleet? Frown. Grandfather’s bones hadn’t predicted a Nor’easter. Their kiss, deep and demanding, erased further speculation regarding the weather.
Scott’s hand skimmed the curvature of this beautiful woman’s graceful neck to her shoulder, allowing his palm to settle on the smoothness of her bare skin. With his subtle guidance, Emily’s attention lowered for her mouth to eagerly explore and nuzzle the landscape of his chest. Lavender-scented hair brushed across Scott’s face and he breathed in euphoria.
Rap. Rap. Rap.
“Pay no heed, my dear man. It’s only acorns falling from the chestnut oak tree.”
Wait. Chestnut oak? A brow creased. Well, Scott had heard plenty of those acorns hit the ground in Virginia and, not to disagree with this lovely woman, but he was pretty damn certain chestnut oaks weren’t found in California. However, the horticultural lesson would need to wait.
Intimacy deemed the bed’s silk sheet unnecessary and it slipped off their bodies to pool on the floor.
My God.
Emily’s eyes could stop time, but her unveiled essence captured a man’s heart and soul for eternity. A fine destiny, indeed.
Scott’s hand pressed on the small of her back and gently guided her closer. It was a fact. No words needed voiced when the natural rhythm between lovers called upon primal senses of touch, taste, -
RAP. RAP. RAP.
Sound?
“Lieutenant Lancer. The wind. Tie down your tent, sir.”
Arms and legs thrashed about in hugger-mugger bedding. What the hell? Eyes opened not to a beautiful woman’s face, but squinted at the face of a pocket watch on the bedside table, confirming what the sun rays streaming through the hotel window suggested.
Ho-HO, Lancer! Out late with the lady?
Shut up, MacCallister.
“Grandson? Are you awake?”
“Yes.” Shaking off a tangled bed sheet along with the remaining remnants of his dream, Scott stood, donned pants and aimed what Murdoch labeled a heavy sigh at the source of the previous knocking. “I’m awake… unfortunately.” No sense stalling. A turn of a knob and the wooden barrier between guilt and judgment swung open.
Scrutinizing the room’s occupant, Harlan Garrett’s demeanor of disapproval couldn’t resist stating the obvious. “You’ve overslept.”
“I have.” Acknowledging the obvious deemed prudent.
“Your breakfast is waiting.”
“I won’t be long.”
“It’s no doubt cold.”
“Then coffee will be fine.”
“And what shall I tell Roberta?”
“Good morning?” Raised eyebrow and grin poked a hole in his grandfather’s blustering sail, releasing the elder’s own version of a heavy sigh which carried him back down the hallway. Snagging a tossed shirt from the bedpost, Scott caught the scent of lavender. A grin morphed into a smile.
*********
Roberta Westcott’s statements of prestigious area and not far from the Stanford mansion proved correct. However, it would be the only time Scott found the woman agreeable since the day he met her.
The newly purchased Garrett residence with its steep steps, pitched roof and intricate detailing reflected the popular style of the Q Street neighborhood.
“What do you think, my boy?”
Studying the home from the walkway, Scott thought it comparable to the family’s Boston brownstone, although he found his grandfather’s Sacramento Sanctuary more inviting due to the emphasis on natural materials, exposed beams and wrap-around porch. “This suits you, sir. I’d say it was a wise choice.”
“The grounds need work. Nothing a good gardener can’t eradicate.” Roberta’s recommended death sentence for weeds landed on a stray dandelion at her feet. “Would you like a tour of your grandfather’s estate, young man?” Not waiting for a response, the woman mounted the steps while a brim-shaded eyeroll targeted her back.
Scott had anticipated the sound of their echoing footsteps in an empty house. Instead, he was surprised to discover furnishings in each of the rooms, making it appear as if the place had a current resident. But then a different scenario began to unfold with the telltale signs of personal egress: bare walls, absent knick-knackery and cleared bookcases. “Is the home still occupied?”
“No, it’s vacant.” Harlan glanced around. “Well, so to speak.”
“One man’s loss is another man’s gain.” The cobra smiled. “I enjoy a good proverb too, Scotty. Let us show you the second floor.”
Bank Foreclosure. Sheriff Sale.
The words appeared often in newspapers when financial circumstances pressured a family to gather only a few personal items before the forced exodus from their home.
One man’s loss is another man’s gain.
Scott’s silent, dismal conclusion of his grandfather’s advantageous purchase made the air grow old and stale inside the rooms they’d wandered through as Roberta concluded her grand tour commentary. “Of course, the drapes will need replacing. That goes without saying. And a few of the furnishings… ” Eyes drifted to a carved lion’s head side table. “There’s no accounting for some people’s taste, is there?”
The woman’s question met silence. Refusing to rescue the query with an answer, Scott let it hang awkwardly in the air to choke.
“Roberta, I believe you mentioned your desire to do a bit of shopping today.” The elder man’s smile and outstretched arms of resolve breathed life back into the stalled conversation. “Surely you don’t want two bored men tagging along. Let me hail a carriage.”
“A splendid idea, Harlan. I am curious what styles these Sacramento emporiums have to offer. Until this evening, Scotty.” Not waiting for an amicable farewell, Seth’s mother turned to be escorted out the door.
Considering the history of Roberta’s critiquing, Scott stood in the middle of the parlor and bowed his head. His grandfather’s return interrupted quiet prayers for proprietors’ souls when that woman wandered into their establishments.
“Your lack of speech, grandson, is quite deafening.”
“Mrs. Westcott can leave a man rather speechless, at times.”
“Hmmmm. Her opinions are many and, at times, readily given without thought. Your grandmother didn’t need so many words. She simply displayed - how does Kinsey describe it? A look on her puss.” Harlan ran his hand over a velvet settees’ back. “She would have liked California, your grandmother. She’d know how to make this a home again. What can I do to make this house feel like a home to you, Scotty?” The patriarch scrutinized the vacant bookcase. “Some of your novels. Pirates of the Dark Seas, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.” Scott stared out the bay window, allowing his grandfather’s attempt at humor jab with a blunt sword.
“The gentleman passed away here in a house, not his home. I wish to avoid that.”
“Pardon? Not a home?” Scott's attention stepped back inside. “I thought -”
“Oh, I know what you thought.” Harlan chuckled and pointed to his grandson. “You had a look on your puss. Yes, the man owned this house, but I believe it fell short of being his home. The next of kin reluctantly came, coldly gathered items to pawn and departed. They had no desire for the furniture.” Harlan leaned in, wide-eyed. “I guess a carved lion’s head side table didn’t entice their change purse, so I included its value along with the rest of the residence’s contents in my purchase.”
Scott’s slight smile eased in his regret. “Sir, I apologize.”
A raised palm dissolved the judgemental gavel. “Not necessary. As I stated, Roberta’s words can come without thought. Although incorrect, your assumption was warranted.”
“Dickens. Whitman. Irving. Poe. Melville. I believe having those men sitting on the bookshelf would be a good start in making this a home.”
“Consider it done, my boy.” The elder beamed.
“And, sir? From my old room, the box of lead soldiers along with a Toby mug and spoon.” Scott grinned at his grandfather’s questioning arched brows. “For when future young legacies visit your California home.”
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