To Have and To Hold

“To you I shall say, as I have often said before, do not be in a hurry, the right man will come at last.”

Scott, sitting at his father’s desk, glanced up. With her barely audible reading, the room’s other occupant had detoured his attention from columns of numbers neatly recorded in the ranch’s ledger.

It took a moment to place the author.

Frances Bur-no wait. Jane Austen.

He opened his mouth to comment, but stopped. Although the little lady sat curled up in an over-stuffed chair across from him in the Great Room, she wasn’t present. Words on a page had transported her elsewhere.

Kinsey’s unaware she spoke aloud.

Grin.

Eyes returned to calculated figures as his cousin continued an uninterrupted stroll through fields of wildflowers with Miss Austen.

*******

As a soft breeze shared the vineyard magnolias’ lemony-vanilla scent with seated wedding guests, Scott stood at the side of the gent who had proved himself to be author Austen’s right man for Kinsey.

Joining the two gentlemen in front of their grape arbor milieu, the bride’s confidant in sisterhood, Teresa. Scott tagged along the path of the young woman’s gaze which ended at her beau, Richard, a fella who’d endured Murdoch Lancer’s scrutiny and, like Seth, had survived. A slight wave from the gent placed a smile on the maid of honor’s face which then bounced a knowing one on the best man’s. Chances were a scene similar to today would be repeated in the near future celebrating another couple’s happiness.

Scott’s visual journey continued, casually drifting among the familiar faces before him, some silently taking in the vineyard’s beauty, others quietly whispering away the remaining few minutes of anticipation. However, one guest was doing neither.

Johnny.

Sporting the mien of a thirsty man praying for a cool beer, his brother sat bookended by the McGuire twins, each manning a brightly colored Japanese sensu. The gale force winds from the girls’ fluttering paper fans coaxed their escort’s dark hair into a slight jig on his dance floor forehead. Spying Scott’s perusal, Johnny’s emerging lopsided grin slyly raised an index finger to his temple followed by a thumb-pulled trigger. Although his mouthed bang was silent, it presented itself quite loudly in a big brother’s ears.

Jaw clenched.

Muscles tightened.

Laughter denied.

With proper decorum maintained, Scott’s private sightseeing tour of wedding guests moved on, halting at -

The Smiling Cobra.

Today, far from the high-ranking among Boston's social circles, Roberta Westcott had been demoted to being simply Seth’s mother; a role she only cared to acknowledge simultaneously with her quarterly vineyard stipends. The woman’s pinched expression lacking any signs of maternal pride on a son’s wedding day perched stiffly in a chair while mutely judging the current venue and its participants, including her designated companion for the event -

Grandfather.

In sharp contrast, the man sat happy as a Back Bay clam at high tide. And why not? He’d recently purchased his Sacramento Sanctuary while mending fences with a stubborn grandson whose vineyard stock investments he planned to surpass by buying out the holdings of the groom’s unsuspecting mother positioned next to him.

Slow exhale.

Quite the feat for an elderly statesman in a short period of time. However, ladies and gentlemen, can we surmise the finishing touch of chocolate icing on Harlen Garrett’s yellow cake of satisfaction?

Scott cocked a brooding brow while the man’s unwavering wink aimed at his grandson provided the answer.

Why indeed we can. Today his brother’s granddaughter is not marrying Johnny Madrid. Thank God. Exclamation point.

Scott’s wandering wedding guest jaunt sought out a face which could replant a smile, thus gravitating his focus on a very lovely destination that, with her teasing conjoling, had convinced a Bostonian rancher and tastebud skeptic to not only sample lobster canapés but opt for a Boneshaker over a buggy ride -

Miss Emily Browning.

Where most present at today’s festivities would be displaying a dose of the McGuire Sister Attention-Seeking Syndrome while seated next to Jane Stanford, Emily appeared at ease and… shall we say… enchanting.

The Enchantress. The voyage. The small blue velvet bag in my dresser drawer.

Perhaps it was his current view or simply the nature of the day that suddenly reminded Scott of his rough-cut South African diamond purchase.

Ho-Ho Lancer! Perhaps, sir, it’s time to visit a San Francisco jeweler!

Well, George-

“Sir, it’s time.”

“Pardon?” The whispered words had ambushed from behind.

Monroe Wilder, violin tucked neatly under his arm, held out a pocket watch displaying the noon hour. “Shall I begin?”

“Sorry. Yes, of course.” Scott side-eyed the gent next to him for a confirmation. “That is, if the groom concurs.”

A spreading smile was currently evaporating any knowledge of the King’s English from Seth Westcott’s brain while he observed at the end of the aisle dividing hushed wedding guests a tall San Joaquin cattle rancher with a little lady from Melbourne on his arm.

“Right.” The call was made. “I do believe the groom concurs. You may proceed as planned Mr. Wilder.”

“Very good, sir.” Stepping forward, Wilder stood erect, positioned his precious Stradivarius and drew a bow across the instrument’s strings; releasing the first notes of Pachelbel’s Canon. As it did that night in an Omaha restaurant when he captured Kinsey’s adoration, the eloquent classical melody began floating amongst the guests - gathering them together.

Watching Kinsey on his father’s arm slowly make her way past attendees’ smiles and nods, random thoughts tumbled through Scott’s head and, like each repeated stanza of the violinist’s melodious piece, began building upon the last.

Stepping off the stagecoach.

Spoiled. Impetuous.

That damn calf stuck in the mud.

Little card-shark. Manipulator.

Train ride to Philadelphia.

Boston. Grandfather. Winnie.

Stubborn. Independent.

Skipping stones. Lucy Stone.

Women’s suffrage and soapboxes.

Billiards and tart lemonade.

The gala.

Best in show. Business partners.

Labyrinth of Love.

Laughter. Tears.

In time with the bride’s last step to the arbor, Monroe’s violin gifted a closing resonance of melodic emotion to Scott’s final thought that lassoed his jumbled memories into one.

Full potential of the universe.

“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?”

The reverend’s question should have been queried to Edwin Furlong, Kinsey’s apathetic father who never embraced fatherhood. Instead, Lancer’s patriarch had stepped into that role.

“I do.” Murdoch’s soft smile and gentle squeeze of Kinsey’s hand before placing it in Seth’s suggested pink chicken coops, mowed clover and all the additional gray hairs missed by the blades of grass were forgotten. “Good luck, son.”

Scott dipped his chin with a grin at his father’s whispered advice to the groom. Well, then again, maybe forgiven would be more accurate than forgotten.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God… ”

Do you have the rings, old boy?

Scott’s hand discreetly patted the side pocket of his tailcoat. Yes.

Good. Why, it’d be a helluva mishap for the best man to have forgotten those.

“And therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly… ”

My God, Lancer, those rings are the most important part of the ceremony, in my humble opinion.

Not now, George.

“But reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God.”

Got to say, old friend, missing the mark on handing them off could ruin the entire matrimonial experience for all involved. Damn shame if that happened.

I know what you’re trying to do, George.

Poppycock. I wouldn’t attempt it. It’s quite obvious you’re calm as a pond…cool as a cucumber…still as a statue…

Shut up, MacCallister.

“I, Seth Phillip Westcott, take thee, Kinsey Rose Furlong, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish… ”

Your little cousin is getting a good man there.

Yes she is.

Commitment, indeed! So tell me, sir, how long’s the wait until you utter those words of dedication to the lovely Miss Browning?

Haven’t given it much thought, George.

Ho-ho! Like hell you haven’t, Lieutenant.

“I, Kinsey Rose Furlong, take thee, Seth Phillip Westcott, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and-

Pause.

– to obey… ”

Hmmmmmm. That little cousin of yours struggled a bit there if you don’t mind me saying.

Casting his eyes downward, the best man smirked in agreement. It couldn’t be helped.

Silence finally tugged Scott’s attention back to the ceremony and the reverend’s questioning expression which also mirrored those of the bride, groom and maid of honor. “Sir, the rings?”

“Yes. Right.” A sheepish grin assisted in relinquishing the circular symbols of trust, loyalty and devotion from a coat pocket to the clergy’s hand.

Oh, well played! Spot on. One could say, poetry in motion… but probably wouldn’t.

Eyeroll. Your dry sarcasm excels among the troops, George.

I was schooled by a master… and best friend.

“And now, with the power vested in me by God I pronounce you man and wife.” The reverend leaned in. “I believe, son, this is the moment you’ve been waiting for.”

Lifting the veil that separated his lips from Kinsey’s, Seth's soft kiss grew more passionate with the eager acceptance from his bride, leaving no doubt it was indeed the moment; ordained with boisterous clapping, laughter and cheers of Hear! Hear! while Monroe Wilder’s violin played a lively version of the Wedding March.

My God, Lancer! Where did your cousin learn to canoodle like that?

Scott smiled. Finn McMurphy.