What’s Wrong With This Picture?
It was a game, of sorts - well, a drawing, actually - that faithfully appeared on the third page of the Boston Weekly. A nameless artist, whose grandeur dreams of creative notoriety never fully fruited and thus needed work to eat, had cleverly sketched a list of out-of-place items partially hidden in an everyday setting. As a boy, Scott would patiently wait for his grandfather to read political editorials followed by a review of stocks before relinquishing his newspaper to an impatient grandson. With pencil in hand, young detective Lancer would pour over the picture, spying then circling a bespectacled elephant perched in a tree or a mustached man floating inside a sky’s puffy cloud. The quest continued until all the drawn oddities were discovered. Satisfying, indeed.
And yes, it was a fact, when Mayor-Editor Will Jenkins recently began featuring What’s Wrong With This Picture in The Green River Gazette, it not only transported Scott back in time but stirred a tinge of impatience as he waited for Murdoch’s unhurried mumbled reading of cattle prices to cease and hand over the paper. Also a fact: eyeballing a kangaroo smoking a stogie behind a heap of hay continued to be satisfying.
While halting the buckboard in front of Westcott’s hacienda, the childhood newspaper game tumbled into Scott’s mind, however, its recollection occurred for the exact opposite reason of a starving artist’s intention. The only thing visually wrong with the courtyard setting was simply…
“Empty.” Scott cautiously rose and glanced around with an expression George MacCallister would accurately call dumbassfuddled.
“Is there something wrong?”
“I’m not sure.” Forced calmness leveled Scott’s reply while resting a hand on his holstered sidearm.
“Ah! Señor!”
“Isabella!” The sight of the Westcott counterpart to Lancer’s Maria emerging from a kitchen side entrance permitted concern to dissolve and offer a casual wave. “Where is everyone?”
“Join us.” The mother hen of the vineyard held up a woven basket toting glasses and bottled wine, making for an enticing invitation. “Our wild pup - she is beating the smiling cobra with a wooden stick.” Briefly, the woman’s face lifted to offer the Good Lord above a hopeful grin for the possibility of her frequent prayer finally answered. “Come! See for yourself.”
Like a vulture, the last exchange of words with his grandfather that Scott had dusted with jesting sarcasm swooped in with a jab to the brain.
Sir, I have a favor to ask.
Of course. What is it?
If you see Kinsey’s fists form small cannonballs at her side when speaking to Roberta Westcott -
Intervene?
No. Stand back.
With boots planted off the buckboard, Scott turned to assist his confused traveling partner and her query. “What did she say?”
“My little cousin’s committing murder.”
Playing catch-up with Isabella, customary long strides now fueled by slight panic, reluctantly shortened so the lovely lady in tow could keep up. Rounding the corner of the hacienda, an anticipated scene was not one of a cat fight, but…
Croquet.
Scott closed his eyes, slowly exhaled and thanked the Good Lord for not listening to Isabella.
Emily’s laughter signaled an amen. “Sir, has anyone ever mentioned your sense of humor can be quite the challenge?”
“It’s been pointed out to me from time to time.”
“Welcome back!” The rusty voice of an older man who’s enjoyed many a cigar came from behind with a friendly shake to Scott’s shoulder. “And who do we have here making this lovely autumn day jealous of her beauty?”
An eyebrow raised at the elder’s playful flattery that demanded equal adulation. “Phillip, may I introduce Sacramento’s Culinary Countess of Good Taste, Miss Emily Browning. Emily, before you stands the smooth-spoken Patriarch of the Westcott Vineyard Dynasty, Phillip Westcott.”
The elder’s brow mirrored Scott’s. “And only a silver-tongued Bostonian could deliver introductions with such style.” Weathered hands gathered up the delicate ones of his latest guest. “My dear, it is good to have you with us.”
“The pleasure is mine, sir. Your vineyard is breathtaking. Thank you for your gracious hospitality.”
“And your journey here?”
“Quite delightful, especially when a lady’s escort is a charming, captivating man.”
“Charming you say.” A knowing smile spread across Phillip’s face. “And captivating. Well how about that.”
The mental replay of his previous conversation with Westcott dipped Scott’s chin.
What if I told you every time I drove this fine chariot, Lydia conveyed I was the most charming and captivating man she’d ever known.
I see. And those were her exact words?
Oh, Lydia didn’t need words, son.
Time to change the subject before Seth’s grandfather blessed Emily with a stroll down memory lane. Palming the crown of his hat, Scott swept it toward the field of competition. “I see you’ve acquired a well-maintained grassy area for a lively game of croquet.”
“Ah, yes.” Phillip clasped his hands behind his back. “The promenade. Our wild pup informed me that Lancer also boasts of one.”
“Did your wild pup’s informative tale include her close call with a trip to the woodshed for establishing said promenade?”
“She did briefly mention your father's unwarranted dismay regarding his mowed-down clover.”
Laughter lassoed Scott’s attention; it was his grandfather’s. With shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows and vest unbuttoned, Harlan appeared ten years younger while successfully knocking his croquet ball through a wicket, striking Seth’s ball. The sight delivered a smile. “Who’s winning?”
“Hard to say, but I can tell you who isn’t.” Phillip’s lowered voice did little to hide his glee. “Kinsey’s knocking the knickers off of Roberta.”
Resetting his hat on his head shaded Scott's eyes for a better look at the woman standing apart from the rest. There was no denying - a bushel of lemons couldn’t instill a more sour mien than the one currently displayed by Roberta Westcott.
“Your grandfather pulled the young lady aside and suggested that handing a win to her future mother-in-law could be advantageous.”
“I gather my cousin disagreed.”
“Bullocks I believe is how she put it.” Phillip’s wheezy chuckle indicated he’d thoroughly enjoyed Kinsey’s colorful one-word counter.
“Champion!” Clasping Harlan by the wrist, Seth raised the elder’s arm in victory while Kinsey planted a kiss on her uncle’s cheek.
“Well played, sir!” From his stance as an audience, Scott’s congratulatory shout, accompanied by Emily’s round of applause, corralled the croquet players off the promenade to greet the couple.
“Scotty, my boy.” Like a golden scepter, Harlan held out his mallet. “Who would have guessed a simple game of croquet could rejuvenate these old bones? Ah! This must be Miss Browning who I’ve heard so much about.”
Scott’s quick glance at his cousin’s guiltless demeanor of a cookie jar thief confirmed the elder’s source of the heard so much about. “Emily, my grandfather, Harlan Garrett.”
“Mr. Garrett, hello. Scott speaks highly of his grandfather. It’s lovely to finally meet you. And Miss Furlong - Mr. Westcott - our time at the Stanford gala ended far too soon. I look forward to enjoying your company these next few days.”
“Oh, please!” The little cousin tsk’d a welcoming smile. “Let’s not be stumbling over formalities of names. It’s simply Kinsey.”
“And save Mr. Westcott for this gray-haired gent.” The groom-to-be’s thumb jabbed in the direction of Phillip along with a wink. “Seth will do just fine.”
“Well, perhaps we should stick to proper protocol in some cases.” With the warmth of a chilly Nor’easter working up the coast Roberta stepped forward. “I’m Seth’s mother, Mrs. Westcott. Do you play croquet, Miss Browning?”
Considering Roberta’s wish for propriety, Emily extended her hand to greet the woman. “I do.”
“Excellent.” A gifted croquet mallet replaced a polite handshake. “I fear this silly game has given me a headache. I must lie down.” The Smiling Cobra smirked. “Welcome to our vineyard, Miss Browning.”
“Forgive my daughter-in-law.” Phillip watched Roberta enter the hacienda. “She’s a sore loser.”
Scott’s line of sight joined the elder Westcott’s. If Grandfather has his way, we’re all going to find out how much of a sore loser Roberta Westcott can truly be.
“Speaking of losing.” Seth surrendered a croquet mallet over to his grandfather. “Let’s see if two elderly statesmen can avoid a loss to a pair of lovely ladies.”
“Elderly?” Phillip’s chin jutted in mock indignation. “The gauntlet has been thrown. Come on, Harlan.”
“Ho-Ho. An easy victory for us statesmen, Phillip. We shall be merciless.”
“And we, sir -” The Sacramento chef took a practice swing. “Shall take no prisoners.”
“Bravo, Emily! Women unite! Onward!”
“Kinsey.” Scott’s wagging finger motioned for the little cousin to climb off her suffrage soapbox and walk his way. “A private word with you before stepping out onto the promenade.”
“Yes?” Innocence replaced cookie jar guiltless.
“I want you to listen very carefully.” Scott leaned down to verify eye contact. “There will be no mention of shooting stars, lonely hearts, tarot cards or labyrinths of love. Is that clear?”
“Honesty, Scott.”
“Not the response I’m looking for.”
“All right, yes. Quite clear.”
“Good.” An erect military stance was taken. “Now, go out there, take the high ground and make Harlan Garrett eat crow.”
With a grin, the private saluted the lieutenant and entered the field of battle.
Seth crossed arms. “Think she’ll listen?”
Hands placed on hips. “No.”
“Then we best uncork one of those bottles of vino from Isabella’s basket.”
“Agreed.”
Sitting at the hacienda’s outdoor table, the two business partners watched the current competition of croquet unfold while, between their pauses of sips and silence, highly questioning if any game rules were being followed. As a second glass of wine poured, Scott found his hesitation loosen with the topic of his grandfather’s intentions for a surprise wedding gift, however, initiating the discussion remained a struggle.
Seth pointed out a player. “Scott, I believe your grandfather is cheating.” Sip. “He’s also planning to buy out my mother’s share of the vineyard.”
Well, so much for surprises.
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