“The only true gift is a portion of thyself.” ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
The hands of his pocket watch questioned the likelihood of a punctual departure for Stockton and Westcott vineyards. Scott tucked the timepiece in his vest pocket, crossed arms and leaned in the kitchen doorway.
Simon, the maitre d, hovered at his elbow. “You must understand, Mr. Lancer, this is the first time Emily will be separated from her children for an extended period of time.”
The hushed justification for possible travel delay delivered Scott a smile. Her children consisted of pots and pans, soup kettles, iron skillets, various ladles, razor-edged knives, exotic spices, handwritten recipes; Emily’s brood covered much. Casually pointing out the pinched expression displayed on Issac, her sous chef, accompanied a whispered reply. “I’d say grasping the reins of parenting is growing somewhat exhaustive.”
“The cutlery must be sharpened every other day.”
“Yes, chef.”
“Keep the tarnish at bay on the copper.”
“Yes, chef.”
“And, Issac, the meat market - buy on Thursdays, not Wednesdays.”
“Yes, chef.”
Other members of Emily’s small staff began arriving for the hotel’s breakfast seekers. Each appeared to have their own separate stations, yet seamlessly worked together in completing their preparation tasks that created the movements of an imaginary ballet.
“Oh! Menus for the week! Where are the menus?”
“I have them at the front desk. The waiters were reviewing them.” Throwing a drowning man a life line, Simon signaled the sous chef to follow him to the lobby. Issac quickly obliged.
With a sigh, Emily glanced about the kitchen, her eyes coming to rest on Scott. “I’m fussing, aren’t I?”
A chorus of kitchen staff answered as one. “Yes, chef.”
With an arched brow tamping down a laugh, Scott approached the worrisome mother hen. “Is Issac capable of taking charge?”
“He is excellent.”
“And I’m certain a head chef not long ago felt the same regarding his second in command, Miss Browning.” Palms settled on the little lady’s shoulders gifting a gentle squeeze. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You are not wrong.”
Placed hands on shoulders evolved into a calming embrace. “Maybe we should share the outstanding depth of my accuracy with Issac.”
“The menus you requested.” Returning to the kitchen, Simon presented Arcade’s dining selections with the sous chef in step from behind.
Breaking from Scott’s hold, Emily accepted the menus and promptly handed them over to her assistant. “The kitchen is yours, sir.”
A chorus of content culinary sighs rising above the aromatic song of sizzling bacon herald in Scott’s proclamation. “My dear Miss Browning, your chariot awaits, courtesy of Westcott Vineyard’s distinguished proprietor.”
********
“Son, you can’t be serious.” Phillip Westcott’s skeptical remark reflected the elder’s demeanor of disbelief.
Placing his hands on hips, Scott stared at the ranch’s buckboard; a fine example where utility won in a landslide over style and comfort. He’d planned to rent more presentable travel in Stockton for his trip to Sacramento but had been unsuccessful. A throat cleared. “Well, sir, the future Mrs. Westcott’s travel trunks insisted on this mode of transportation and -”
“Doesn’t mean the little Sacramento chef’s carpetbag needs to insist.” The old man’s sun-weathered hand signaled for feet to start moving. “Follow me.”
Entering one of the winery’s stone outbuildings, Seth’s grandfather approached the only item housed inside and pulled off its canvas covering. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she.”
Scott stepped forward and ran his hand over the smooth oiled wood. Yes, it was a buckboard, although, sporting brightly painted red wheels and a cushioned leather bench seat, it was obvious this smaller, pristine version had never been called upon to carry sacks of grain or fencing wire. “A beauty, indeed.”
“You should have seen her, Scott - sitting up there.” Memories softened wrinkles around Westcott’s eyes viewing the past. “Lydia was stunning. And turned more than one head when we rode into town I can tell you.” A quick nod brought Phillip back to the present from sharing an afternoon jaunt with his wife. “I think it might be time to get this out from under a dusty old cover and let it enjoy a ride up north to bring back that lady of yours.”
“Sir, I appreciate your gracious offer, however, the sentimental value here -”
“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?” Scott now took a stab at playful skepticism.
A mischievous wink returned the wrinkles to the corners of Westcott’s eyes. “Oh, Lydia didn’t need words, son.”
********
While securing their travel bags, Scott paused briefly to admire the lady seated on the cushioned bench seat of the buckboard sporting painted red wheels. Joining his lovely passenger, a conclusion was made: Lydia Westcott would have approved.
Before their Stockton journey commenced, an unannounced side trip halted the travelers in front of the blacksmith shop. Waiting outside, the smithy’s young entrepreneur assistant waved once recognizing Scott. Next to the gent, leaning against a post, was -
“A Velocipede?” Emily now took a turn at skepticism.
“Indeed.” Scott’s sportive grin explained. “Impromptu wedding gift.” Hopping down from the buckboard, the lad’s wave received a returned greeting from his potential customer. “Good morning, Duke!”
“Here it is, Mr. Lancer! Pristine condition. Care to take it for a spin and impress the lady?”
“Not necessary. My riding skills have already left quite an impression.”’ Money exchanged hands. “The price we agreed on plus extra for rope and a blanket or two if available.”
“Of course.” The lad quickly calculated the silvers in his hand. “Thank you, sir. Your generosity confirms there will be more than corn on my supper plate tonight.”
“Very good. Now help me get this ingenuity for the future loaded up.”
“A wedding present.” Emily’s inflection cast doubt on the intentions of the gift-giver.
Again seated beside Doubting Thomasita, Scott glanced over his shoulder at the buckboard’s recently tied down cargo. “Nothing’s too good for my little cousin.”
“What would you say, sir, that I believe it’s anticipated amusement which inspires your current thoughtfulness.”
“Well, Miss Browning,” Turning, Scott adjusted his hat and gathered the reins with a grin. “I’d say you’re getting to know me rather well.”
“I’d say you’re a man full of surprises.”
Smile.
A flick. A click. Brightly painted red wheels set in motion on a day’s journey full of surprises.
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