The Rutledge House Ladies

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Rutledge House was a gothic, elegant, and sometimes hideously imposing, monument to Hiram Rutledge’s sense of grandeur. The elder patriarch had built his home on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean some hundred miles north of San Francisco. From the west, in the late afternoon, there were sunsets washing the pinkish stone of the house’s exterior with an odd glow. The mansion at that time of day, and sometimes early in the morning, might look as though it would gently rise skyward on a trip toward heaven. Other times, the fog would shroud its foundation embedded in the cliff rock, leaving the two grand spires of its turrets bathed in sunlight. And still other days, the gloom of an overcast sky would make the house look like a nightmare from a mystery novel. Sometimes the sense of dread so forbidding a passing tourist or resident of nearby Paris Cove would be tempted to hug their arms as though that might fend off the evil skulking ominously about its perimeter like a ravenous guard dog.

A good deal of a first impression of Rutledge House depended on the direction it was approached. From the ocean, the rocky cliff was steep; the staircase built into the cliff a tough climb. From the north, only part of the house rose above the hill, and it might appear almost mystical from a distance. From the south, the greater part of the house was visible for several miles when the winding road rounded one of its many curves and the awesome structure came into view. It was a well-known landmark used to guide many travelers through the area. From the east, the valley below was a picturesque pattern of vineyards and meandering gold. And to drive toward Rutledge House from that direction the estate seemed like a distant palace on a hill, unapproachable and strong—a robust man’s finest vision.

Once reaching the main drive, there was an iron gate connected to a fence, which circumscribed the property until the sheer cliffs made it unnecessary. There was a vast green lawn dotted with broad black oaks, a few eucalyptus and scrub pines. A hundred feet inside the gate, the gardens began—lush and wondrously brilliant with flowers, meticulously tended by Deacon McDougal. The ancient gardener was one of the few in the vicinity of Paris Cove who could boast that he had been Hiram Rutledge’s good friend. The old man died in 1952 at the age of ninety-six. For nearly ten years, Deacon was the one person who didn’t arouse the man’s wrath. Deacon always said that was because of the flowers. He personally brought the old Hiram fresh blooms every day—an odd gesture from one man to another; though the ritual seemed to bond them, giving two very different men something they could share. Deacon was there to soothe the rough times with the family. He was a quiet man whose calm manner was always reassuring. At eighty, not much had changed in him over the years—always the same steadiness, and love of flowers, and observing eyes.

Deacon McDougal had seen a lot of life at Rutledge House—children, lovers, wives and tramps who passed through its doors—those that stayed and those that left—and even those who returned. He was particularly fascinated by the unusual practices between Rutledge men and their women. He’d even been the grateful beneficiary of one Rutledge daughter’s fancy. Their affair had been brief, but a beautiful moment in Deacon’s steady life. During the war, Pansy Rutledge, who was true to her family’s heritage of lusty women, defied her parents’ wishes and ran off with a young man of questionable virtue. It seemed he was a penniless drifter with a wide smile aimed at Pansy’s crotch, landing there with a sensuous thud. They f****d their way through all of Pansy’s stash of money, and needing more, the two returned to Rutledge House to pilfer a few valuables they could sell. Caught, the boy was arrested. As the story goes, his jail time was brief—the war needed good sturdy men like this one. Pansy was thoroughly admonished in the traditional Rutledge manner, her bottom was strapped at least six times for pilfering silver and a tiny Monet painting she had been sure would not be missed. On the sly, however, she kept up with her lover’s whereabouts—planning to join him after the war was over. A year later, however, he met his death in the Philippines. She was devastated and nearly inconsolable when she heard of his death. Deacon McDougal found her at the edge of the cliffs one night at midnight, and to the family’s sincere gratitude, rescued her from sure death.

The two were lovers after that. Hot tempestuous lovers. He even enjoyed spanking the spunky young woman when she threatened to do something stupid—though their adventures in over-the-knee discipline seemed more like the prelude to making love.

Few in the Rutledge House knew of the affair; but, because it seemed to curb Pansy’s more careless pursuits, those who did let the matter slide.

Despite the affair with Deacon, Pansy continued to be treated to the family legacy of strict corporal discipline—usually administered by her father or an uncle. Eventually, with the passion of their hot affair cooling, she ran away again. No one heard from her again. Deacon always hoped she might return—at least the part of him that selfishly wanted her back. But he knew in his heart that she was probably better off elsewhere and hopefully living a happy life. Even now, at eighty, she was the only love he’d known. That one glorious year in 1947, he would always cherish.

Rutledge House in 1999 was much emptier of tenants than it had been in the past. Hiram’s son James had lived there his whole life, raising five children. His wife, Jeanette, died in a car wreck when her youngest child, Cassie, was five. James himself died in 1993. He willed his holdings: the land, the house, and his vineyards to his children, with the intention of involving them all in the family business—that is, if they took the challenge. Being a Rutledge child was never an easy task. But sharing a fortune and a thriving business, a grand old house and acres of California’s lush and fertile land, made bearing the name “Rutledge” even more difficult.

James Jr., who immediately dropped the Jr. from his name when his father died, became the new Rutledge patriarch. The estate fit him like a glove. His young wife, Angela, was not as excited about living in the formidable home, but she would do anything that her husband asked, without question.

Peter Rutledge also resided in the twelve-bedroom mansion. Several rooms on the ocean side of the house had been converted into a private apartment for him and his wife, Victoria. However, after four years of marriage, Victoria walked out of the house one midnight and never returned. That was three years ago. His wife’s departure left Peter with a blankness that never completely left him. There were some, however, who thought that after three years, he was finally coming out of the icy brooding that defined his disposition

The youngest Rutledge male, Logan, was the black sheep of the family. He refused to live in the house, preferring a guesthouse, which had been built at the edge of the cliff. Logan insisted on revamping the old cottage when he returned after his lengthy hiatus from the “family madness.”

Of James’ two daughters, Veronica married her older brother’s best friend, Robert German—who’d become the Director of Operations for Rutledge Vineyards. Veronica being the free-spirit she was, refused to live in the rattrap castle. The beach condo in Paris Cove was far more her style—and thankfully away from the ominous mood of the fortress.

The youngest Rutledge, Cassie, left the day she turned eighteen. She worked in San Francisco the summer before she started Stanford, and except for holidays she steered clear of the Rutledge business and most of the family. After finishing her master’s degree in Renaissance literature, she was spending a year doing research in Italy.

The day was a sallow one. The sun was not about to peek through the grey fog—everything looked flat and anemic. Despite the March wind and the bone-chilling dampness of the early hour, Veronica threw on her sweats, moved quickly past the bathroom—Robert was taking a shower—and skipped down the stairs, out the door and on to the beach. After stretching for several minutes, she then headed north toward the monolith rocks and her family home. From three miles away, she could see nothing but grey as she gazed toward the cliffs; but that didn’t matter. She didn’t need the landmark visible to know where she was going.

Jogging the long stretch of sand along the water’s edge, she soon reached the outcropping of rock that outlined Picnic Beach—what the Rutledges like to consider their private cove. At the base of the cliff, the staircase to the top was built into a rise of stone and sand, and then switched back five times before reaching the top of the steep incline. It came out twenty feet from the door of Logan’s cottage. Breathless by the time she got to the top, Veronica stopped briefly.

“You’re out unusually early this morning,” her brother noted with a nod as he fiddled with his Jeep parked near the cottage door.

“And so are you,” she quipped.

Logan Rutledge commonly sparred with his siblings. He preferred to keep them all at a distance—except Cassie who was never there anyway. This suited the others perfectly since they believed the youngest Rutledge son lived in a world they could not comprehend.

“Little dressed down, aren’t we?”

“I’m exercising, Logan,” she droned miserably. Her breath restored, she started running again toward the house and didn’t stop until she was in the kitchen door.

“James still here?” she asked.

“Just finishing breakfast,” the cook, Geneva, answered.

Veronica swept past the rotund, grey-haired woman without saying a decent hello. Veronica could already feel her anger rising again. It didn’t take much. Any time she recalled her husband’s shocking decision, she could feel a fresh wave roll up on her inner shores.

“What do you mean, letting Robert fire me!” She burst through the dining room door, seeing Robert, Angela and Peter look up at her with big question marks in their eyes.

“Ah, so he told you,” James said.

“And he can’t do that!” the pissed off redhead practically shouted.

“Veronica, sit!” James ordered and he wasn’t kidding.

He fit the role of a patriarch—greying hair, distinguished features. Though he was Robert German’s age—they’d been best friends for years—he looked much older. His eyes were a mahogany shade of brown, which, while as steady as his determined manner, could express any emotion in an instant and without warning. “Sit down and have some eggs and toast.”

“I don’t want eggs and toast,” she argued.

“Sit any way,” he ordered. This time she had to obey, and she did so, taking a seat as far from her brothers as she could, landing in her chair with an unhappy pout on her face.

“I want my job back,” she said.

“You can have a job,” James told her. “Just not the one you had.”

“That is my job. I’ve worked my ass off in sales, and I won’t have you handing it to someone else so they can reap the glory I’ve earned.”

“Seems that’s exactly what’s going to happen,” Peter said drolly. He was the truly handsome brother, the one who made heads turns, and women cream their panties. He was also a bit of a stuffed shirt and much too prim and rule-bound as far as Veronica was concerned. She figured that his stodgy character was one of the reasons his wild wife left him. Peter was the company’s chief financial officer. He ran the accounting and finance departments with the same impeccable order with which he dressed, ate and combed his hair. Everything in his world was tidy. Everything was perfect. Everything except his very messy marriage. The last he’d heard of Victoria she was dealing cards in a Tahoe casino.

Peter viewed his sister smugly. His eyes were a delicious shade of blue and sometimes so dashing that they could light his face like an October moon. And when he smiled, his teeth gleamed as though he was doing a toothpaste commercial. But when Peter Rutledge was angry, his temper was hot, his bite was mean, and his command like thunder. It had been suggested that he was the most exacting administrator of corporal punishment in the Rutledge line of sons. But there were no Rutledge women willing to test that fact. It was probably the mystique he created around him.

“Face it, sis, you’ve been a lazy little tramp lately,” Peter said.

“Ah, put a cork in it,” she shot back at him. Looking down the breakfast table, she spoke to James. “I’m sorry about C&S. It was all handled—I wouldn’t have left otherwise. Won’t you at least let me give them a call?”

“And screw it up more? You reached the end of the line, dear.”

“Oh, come on, nothing’s that bad.”

“After the conversation I had with Dave Tripoly—yes, it’s that bad. We won’t be in their good graces for a long time to come. Face it, Veronica, you’ve been fired.”

She suddenly looked more despondent than angry. “You really mean this, don’t you?”

“’Fraid so. Your name is mud around here right now. And trust me, if you do anything as stupid as try to call them, I’ll have you over the end of my desk so fast your head will spin and your bottom will ache into the next century. I doubt if you want to be paddled in front of your former staff.”

“C’mon, James.”

“Don’t c’mon me. Your husband probably waited too long to put you out. I would have weeks ago.”

“What is this, some dictatorship? Remember, this is a family business and we all have a say in its running.”

“Yes. And your voice can still be heard as brashly as always. You’re just not going to handle sales, anymore.”

“I’ve built this…”

“Yes, you have. Now take a rest. You surely need it. How about some toast,” he lifted the plate and delivered the question without skipping a beat.

“James, no,” she was about to cry, her face screwed up like a prune.

“Don’t pout, you’ll give yourself wrinkles,” Peter said.

She flashed him a menacing grimace, and then sighed wearily, slumping back in her chair. “I hate this place,” she added absently.

“It’s done, Veronica. Why don’t you patch things up with Robert and go about your business.”

“What do you mean patch things up?”

“s*x, sweetie,” Peter quipped. “You’re always much happier when the two of you are humping.”

Veronica looked at her brother aghast. Those weren’t words he often used. His smile was almost mischievous. She’d forgotten how bratty he could be—not a hell of a lot different from when he was at twelve.

“You’re all laughing at me, aren’t you?”

“Who’s laughing?” Logan asked, peeking his head in the door.

“Go away, Logan.”

“Lost your job, didn’t you?”

“How the hell do you know?” she shot back to him.

“I think you were the last to know. That’s the way things work around here, isn’t it?” He sauntered toward the table, plucking a fresh biscuit from the basket. Popping half of it in his mouth, he walked back to the door.

“Well,” she humphed, knowing she’d been humiliated. What else could she expect from her brothers? “If that’s all you think of me, I can find other things to do.” She pushed away from the table. “I’ll clean out my office.”

“Mind your manners when you do,” James warned. “You screw up the account information, I’ll personally cane you.”

Veronica snarled at him, too. She had a streak of vengeance a mile wide, and no one wanted to see her on the warpath.

“Maybe the art department could use me,” she finally said, directing her comment at Angela. Suddenly drawn into the risky conversation, the young woman’s bright black eyes looked a little stunned. She was no match for the Rutledge siblings when they were verbally brawling.

“Maybe,” she said timidly. Her eyes were shining with tears. Just seeing her sister-in-law so disgraced made her shudder for herself. The gentle, young daughter of a migrant worker had her own reasons for being a Rutledge; and they had nothing to do with the combat that made for lively moments like these.

“Take the day off,” James said, “and that’s an order.” He’d had enough of his sister’s whining and quickly pulled out of his chair. His last remark was to his trembling wife. “Remember what we agreed,” he nodded to her.

The gentle Angela blushed as though he’d just told the whole wide world the secret behind that comment. At this table, he might as well have. It wasn’t hard to guess what kept this husband and wife together.