The Three Strike Rule

Stewing, indeed.

Approaching the dining room’s single patron ensconced at a table which provided a view of Sacramento’s strolling pedestrians, Scott was only offered the gentleman’s back and a gray head of hair refusing to turn for visual acknowledgment of its visitor.

Harlan’s hand left the snifter in front of him long enough to point out the window. “Your hesitation to cross the street moments ago suggests the reluctance in seeing your grandfather has followed you all the way from Stockton.”

A touch of cheekiness countered the slight sarcasm. “Who’s to say I’m not the waiter inquiring if you wished for another libation?”

“During the war and my worry, I yearned to hear your footsteps entering the study. I’d replay them in my head many a night.” The Garrett patriarch shifted slightly to offer a profile. “This old brain will never let go of its familiarity with your stride.” 

As if he too had been waiting for the arrival of a wayward grandson, the dining room steward appeared with Scott’s drink.

“Nor shall it forget your penchant for brandy after a long ride.” Harlan nodded at the attendant. “Thank you, Samuel.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Garrett.” With hotel proprieties in play, the man didn’t hover, but politely turned and left.

“Samuel?” A cocked eyebrow expressed surprise at his grandfather’s use of the waiter’s first name.

“I’ve been a fixture here for so long the staff have become like family.” A heavy sigh emphasized the elder’s woebegone existence.

“Right.” Scott crossed his arms. “So, should I drink my brandy before or after I walk the plank?”

“Oh, sit down!” Sputtering bluster commenced. “Walking the plank. My God, those ridiculous stories you read as a boy.”

Scott claimed a vacant chair and his snifter. “Pirates of the Dark Seas.”

“Well, Mrs. McLoughlin was correct. Pennydreadfuls rotted your brain.”

“Better than penny candy rotting my teeth.” A flashed, sweeping smile confirmed the statement. “And let the ledger show it was you who abandoned ship before Kinsey and I arrived at the vineyard.”

Sitting back, Harlan’s suppressed chuckle escaped through his nose as a snort. “Scotty, why can’t I stay mad at you?”

“Because, sir, you have no reason to be.” The necessary disclaimer was added. “At least not this time.”

No longer stifled, the patriarch’s laughter came easy. “You age me and keep me young all at once. How is that possible? Never mind. We need not an answer but a celebratory drink.” A snifter raised. “It’s good to have you here.” 

“I’m pleased to find you well.” Scott’s gesture mirrored his grandfather’s and took a sip of the amber liquid. It couldn’t be argued; a day’s long journey required a brandy at the end of the trail.

“Ah!” Palms slapped thighs. “I feel renewed, mentally and physically. My thoughts of a second residence here in Sacramento have proven sound. My boy, wait until you see it.”

“Hold up.” The snifter’s repeated path to Scott’s lips made a reversal back to the table top. “See it? When did your thoughts turn into a decision?”

“Yesterday. Of course, I would have appreciated your sentiments on the estate before my purchase.” Harlan’s hands splayed out to lob a shot of guilt across the bow. “But you weren’t here.”

“Wait. Did you say estate?”

“Well, in my opinion, the home is comparable to the Boston brownstone but Roberta likes to refer to it as such.”

“Ah. Roberta.” Scott’s drink resumed its previous mission, halting further comments.

“Is your dismal inflection of her name the product of another man’s views or of your own?” The elder leaned in. “I’m aware of Phillip’s nickname for his daughter-in-law.”

Smiling Cobra. A smirk managed to surface as words danced around a response. “You’ve taught me not to judge hastily.”

“Then shed your black robe and lay down the gavel. This is a woman who will soon be part of our family after vows are spoken.”

“Vows?” On its way to be heard, clarification encountered liquor, creating a strangled query.

“Yes. Kinsey and Seth’s. Ssssscotteeee… whom did you think I meant?” Harlan’s playful grin tattled on his intended jest. 

Scott’s chin dipped with the acceptance of being duped. Well deserved considering how many times he’d preyed on his little cousin’s gullibility. “May I inquire the whereabouts of Mrs. Westcott?”

“Roberta is taking her afternoon repose. She’ll be joining us for the evening meal.”

A hand raised to attract the waiter’s attention. “Another round.”

                             ********

Baseball. 

In September of 1845, a group of men, led by volunteer firefighter Alexander Cartwright, founded the New York Knickerbocker Baseball Club. By 1857 the sport had grown popular throughout the country; drawing spectators by the thousands. It was this same year Scott attended his first game and announced soon after that he would someday be a baseball player.

Alas, much like his earlier hopes of pirating the dark seas, a young lad’s dream of fielding a riser to a cheering crowd dissolved with his grandfather’s frown and shake of a head. However, the grandson’s love of baseball never faded.

Standing to greet Roberta Westcott and her fashionably late entrance for supper, Scott decided baseball’s three strike rule would serve him better than a judge’s gavel.

“Gentlemen, I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.” The woman’s concern appeared minimal.

Ingrained etiquette insisted Scott pull out a chair for their female companion. The game was afoot.

“Thank you, Scotty. Oh, you don’t mind if I call you Scotty do you? Your grandfather has spoken his endearment of your name so often these last several days of waiting I fear I’ve adopted it also.”

“Why no.” Smile. “Not at all.” 

Westcott to bat. Strike one. 

“Don’t fault me, grandson. I can’t help bragging about you. The lady has been kind enough to listen.”

“Harlan, perhaps we should first make our meal selections before enlightening conversation.” Roberta lowered her voice to share a secret. “We’ve found the hotel staff are quite accommodating but a bit… how shall I put it? Unhurried.”

“Yes ma’am.” Scott scrutinized his menu. “Although unhurried didn’t concern the tortoise much.” 

“Pardon?”

The study of Ebner’s entrees paused to follow Scott’s raised sight line of the Maitre D's quiet presence from behind.

“Shall I pour, sir?” The Wescott label presented itself for approval.

“Yes. Thank you.” Scott’s nod of well-timed service sat him back in his chair with a satisfied grin as goblets filled. “I’m sure you’ve read The Tortoise and the Hare, Mrs. Westcott, where slow and steady wins the race.”

“Yes, I have.” The hooded eyes of the cobra darkened. “Why, Harlan, your grandson is quite the clever young man with his analogy.”

Lancer sends a daisy cutter to left and gets his base.

“Clever, but a bit of a rapscallion as a lad. He blessedly grew out of the latter.” The patriarch’s forced chortle spoke of hope for accuracy on his assumption.

It soon became apparent that ordering food and Roberta’s promise of enlightening conversation would be delayed as the woman read and painfully appraised each entrée. 

Avoid the larded oysters. Obviously West Coast harvested.

It’s questionable if the woodcocks are roasted for a full ten minutes.

Detecting smoked tongue in the marbled veal is a challenge.

Through it all, the steward patiently waited with pencil and pad in hand; now, no doubt, immuned to Roberta’s often repeated culinary critiques. Scott couldn’t say the same for his growling stomach as it requested one of Emily Browning’s lobster canapés.

“Sir?”

Glancing up from his menu, Scott encountered three sets of eyes making him the center of attention. 

“What does the gentleman wish to order?”

“Right.” Scott set the menu aside. “The gentleman wishes for a thick steak medium-rare, roasted potatoes, green beans and a loaf of crusty bread.”

“Oh my, Harlan.” Roberta’s fingers prim and properly unfolded a napkin to place in her lap.  “I believe your grandson has abandoned a complex Eastern appetence for a rancher’s palate of common… simplicity.”

Addressing the waiter, Scott smiled. “And a bowl of mock turtle soup, if available this evening.” Hands clapped and rubbed together in anticipation of a fine meal. “That should do it!”

The man nodded and winked. “Very good, sir. Excellent choices.”

Lancer hits a corker and rounds the diamond.

“So, I understand my future daughter-in-law has recovered from her equestrian faux pas. Honestly, what was she thinking?”

Roberta picked up a spoon for a closer look. Scott was unsure if she was searching for tarnish or crows feet. “Actually, Kinsey is quite an accomplished rider, Mrs. Westcott.”

“I’d coin it as a rather unaccomplished bareback rider.” The spoon returned to its place by the knife. “The devil is in the details, Scotty.”

“Well, true. My cousin is a bit of a daredevil.” 

“The young lady was sternly reprimanded.” Harlan shook out his napkin to demonstrate how he’d wagged a disapproving finger at Kinsey, when in truth his full blame for the accident had landed squarely on Johnny.  “You needn’t worry about Seth dealing with her foolish behavior. I assure you, the girl learned her lesson.”

“Of course. I’m certain your niece remains quite lovely -” The cobra’s slanted eyes shifted from her older supper companion to the younger. “When improper upbringing can be so difficult to disguise.” 

Westcott’s sent to the grass. Strike two.

Roberta sighed. “Well, Shakespeare did pen; love is blind.”

“However, the Roman poet Vergil scripted omnia vincit amor. Scott grinned. “Love conquers all.” 

“Ho! Very good, grandson. The Latin tutors of the past rise to the occasion.” Harlan beamed at the evidence of his money being well spent on education while completely unaware he had, according to Roberta’s stiffened carriage, hit a foul in Scott’s mental game of baseball.

As ordered entrees were speared, sliced and devoured, the Sacramento Sanctuary Seekers provided Scott with tomorrow’s agenda showcasing the recently purchased Garrett Winter Residence.

“Did your grandfather mention his new estate is located not far from the Stanford mansion?” Roberta dabbed the corner of mouth with a linen serviette. “Are you familiar with the prestigious area, Scotty?”

“I have some knowledge of the surroundings.” If he’d been engaged in conversation with someone other than Seth’s mother, Scott would have gladly told of his visits to the governor’s home or shared the beauty of Jane Stanford’s gardens. But knowing his experiences would only become status fodder for Roberta Westcott’s high society hens once she returned east, Scott refrained.

“And Harlan, I am more than happy to assist you in hiring the staff for your home away from home. It’s so important to find help who are willing to accept their place in life. So many overstep and think they are considered members of the family.” Roberta leaned in with smugness. “As if that was ever an option.”

Fer the love of Mike! Who does this snooty fishwife think she is now? Throw ‘er the fast ball, ScottyGarrett.

My pleasure, Winnie.

“Limiting one’s options gives birth to missed opportunities, Mrs. Westcott.”

“Oh?” The woman’s pompous aura hung thick around her pinched face. “So tell me Scott, what great statesman are you presently quoting?”

A grandson’s eyes settled on his grandfather. “Harlan Garrett.”

Strike three and Westcott is sent to the bench.

                                *********

Opening the lid of the teak humidor displayed on Ebner’s lobby desk, Scott selected a cigar. “Care to join me, Grandfather?”

“Ah.” Harlan’s index finger tapped his temple. “The mind is willing, but the flesh is weak. I believe I will follow Roberta’s lead and retire for the evening.”

“Another time then.” Scott closed the cigar box. “Rest well.”

“You do the same, my boy.”

Concern furrowed a brow. “Sir, may I have a moment to speak freely?”

“Of course. Your grandmother would say that expression you sport is weighed with worry. Out with it.”

 “I find myself questioning why Roberta Westcott has earned your…. ” Diplomacy stalled the query.

“Tolerance?”

“Well, yes.” Smile. “Your tolerance.”

“Scotty, I’m fond of my money. I know that makes me sound like Dickens’ Scrooge and I pray you’re aware that is not the case. I simply like to take good care of something I’ve worked hard for. And when it comes to investing in a financial venture where others are doing the same, well, how do you put it? A clear eye?” Harlan double tapped his knuckles on the lobby’s desktop. “Yes, I like to keep a clear, close eye on their fondness of my money. Now, grandson, let’s say you go enjoy that Havana and let these old bones get some rest.”

Watching his grandfather mount the staircase to his room, one more question went unspoken. Would that clear eye be on all the vineyard investors, sir? 

                              ********

The night held a slight chill under a clear sky. Much of Sacramento’s residents had embraced Harlan Garrett’s thoughts of sleep. With wisps of cigar smoke trailing behind him, Scott strolled down K Street under flickering gaslights, paused and then turned right at 2nd.