Relations : A Santa Barbara story
By Kevin Hardy						Accueil   Home

October 27, 2023

Manhattan, New York

Central Park was awash in colour, the kaleidoscope of Autumn projected in its full psychedelic glory. The air was crisp, yet comfortable, the kind of day that was typically reserved for a Woody Allen film. The park was alive with both residents and tourists, the feel of the majestic natural space finally having begun to return to what it was in pre-COVID times. While many people still wore masks, this was no longer a social norm and the atmosphere was electric.

Mason Capwell, dressed in a light blue windbreaker, was seated at Bethesda Fountain, anxiously awaiting his daughter, Samantha. The long-time New Yorkers were set to meet on their respective lunch breaks, which rarely coincided. Mason was just taking his first bite from Julia’s signature chicken salad sandwich, when he noticed Samantha confidently descending the New Brunswick sandstone of the upper terrace. He laid his hastily re-wrapped sandwich down on a dry piece of stone, which framed the Angels of the Water statue.

"Hey, sweetheart,” Mason greeted, while giving Samantha a light peck on her subtly powdered right cheek. The elder Capwell could sense his daughter’s apprehension. Samantha was working as a public defender in the New York Courts system but had recently been devoting her attention to a case that was more personal, as she invariably did. One of her oldest friends had solicited her services on behalf of a group whose parents and/or grandparents had died from COVID-complications in nursing homes across the state. In a serendipitous turn, Mason’s firm had been recruited by ex-Governor Andrew Cuomo, and his administration, to defend them against the allegations.

"You’re worried I want to discuss the case,” Mason stated knowingly, as they both took a seat on the slightly chilled cement.

"Lo Guioco del Lotto D’Italia,” Samantha responded, referring to the ancient origins of Bingo.

"Samantha, I just don’t understand your motivation,” Mason put forward.

"My motivation?!” Samantha cried. “How about the 15,000+ seniors who died because the state didn’t remove infected residents from long-term care facilities? And don’t get me started on the undercounting.”

Mason nodded gingerly, understanding his daughter’s passion and its source. “It is a complex issue,” he agreed, his voice betraying the slightest hint of condescension, at least to Samantha’s ears. “But they were trying times, and there is no denying everyone got off to a slow start. But look at the masking, the distancing, the testing and most importantly the vaccination roll-out. New York state had one of the best responses in the country, if not the world.”

"Still defending Cuomo?” Samantha questioned with a trace of rage. “Forget the lives of seniors, forget the sexual harassment claims, as long as we had great testing.”

Mason smiled, this action born out of a tremendous amount of pride, a pride that was known exclusively to parents. “Not the man himself, but certainly his record. You are so much like your mother,” he boasted. He had not always looked at Julia’s endless determination, sense of empathy, and code of ethics as things to be admired, but he could not now imagine his life without them.

"I’ll take that as a compliment,” Samantha allowed.

"As it was meant,” Mason confirmed. “You know, we may be years away from a trial date, but I never thought I could be facing my own child in court. My wife on several occasions yes, most of which I won, but never my own daughter.”

"Well buckle up, old man,” Samantha urged, this spoken with equal parts playfulness and combativeness.

"Just don’t get bogged down in the emotions,” Mason advised, “that was always your mom’s Achilles heel. This case will be decided after years of discovery and years of grunt work. It’s the evidence that counts, not just the heartfelt plea in the closing argument. There are very few James Spaders in the American justice system.”

"I did show up to class every once in a while, Dad, my knowledge of the legal system is not limited to Boston Legal and L.A. Law.”

Mason lowered his head, as his lips tightened. “I’m talking down to you and I apologize,” he recognized.

"Funny you mentioned James Spader,” Samantha pointed out. “Didn’t he play you in Uncle Greg’s television project?” This was a reference to the critically panned Sun, Sand and Hot & Sweaty Passion, which had enjoyed only a five-and-a-half episode run back in 2022.

"No,” Mason countered, “that was Gordon Thomson. But not really my favourite subject to discuss, you understand.”

"Fair enough,” Samantha acknowledged. “Back to the case, as you said we will have years of back and forth on it. I just wanted to meet with you to ask we don’t get into it this weekend. Sunday is a special day, and I don’t want to ruin it for Roger and Mitch.”

Mason examined his daughter, always impressed by her level of emotional intelligence. She truly represented the best of her parents. “Agreed,” he noted.

Roger and his husband, after years of struggle, had finally realized their mutual dream of adopting a child. The baby girl was to be welcomed into the family two days hence with a christening at the St. Mary's Church, followed by a gathering at the Capwell home in Connecticut.

"They’ve been waiting a long time for this,” Samantha advocated. She was so happy for her brother and secretly relieved the adoption had come through when it did. Another option Roger had floated was for her to be the couple’s surrogate, which had scared her to death.

"Let’s not forget to thank Governor Cuomo for signing the marriage equality act into law,” Mason needled.

Samantha looked down to her feet and groaned. “The fool doth think he is wise,” she muttered.

October 29, 2023

New Haven, Connecticut

Samantha, outfitted in an A-Line yellow dress, stood on the porch of her parents’ Dutch colonial home. Momentarily, Julia Capwell pulled open the chocolate panelled door. “Is it safe?” the 66-year-old barrister speculated. “You and your dad have called a truce?”

"I think Pop-Pop and I have reached a cease fire,” Samantha informed her mother as she walked into the sunlit foyer, this home to many a hanging fern.

"There will be no Pop-Pop!” Mason exclaimed, as he burst into the front room.

"But what else is little Bridget going to call her Grandpa?” Samantha baited, as she removed her high heels, which were slightly sweaty following the three-hour Baptism Mass.

"How about Mason?” her father recommended. “Or Mr. Capwell would be fine.”

"Mr. Capwell?” Julia snickered, as she gave her husband a sideways glance.

"That’s what I called Grandpa Emmett,” Mason recalled, as he folded his hands across his sweatered chest, “and we had a wonderful relationship.”

"Such a warm and loving family I married into,” Julia remarked.

"Warm and loving is hell on the ratings, Julia," Mason quipped.

Mason approached Samantha and lay his hand on her head. “You know, if perhaps a certain case was dropped, I may be willing to take on the moniker of, ugh, Pop-Pop.”

Samantha smiled and shook her head vigorously, this action loosening her ponytail. “Not a chance,” she proclaimed.

Julia physically stepped in between the two Capwells, her role in their relationship having been so clearly defined over the years. “Okay, okay,” she refereed, “the two of you shake hands and go into your respective corners.”

Hearing the resolve in Julia’s voice, and both shrinking back from the lady’s sharply pointed index finger, Samantha and Mason shook hands. Each bore a look of somewhat playful disgust on their faces. “Right then,” Julia ratified. “By the power vested in me by the state of Capwell, and in the tradition of so many cases your dad and I litigated with decency and decorum, I now pronounce you rivals outside of this house only.”

"Rivals outside of this house only,” Samantha chuckled. “I promise to keep court and family separate.”

"If I may plant one final thought, Samantha,” Mason added. "People do need to believe in their institutions and the legacies that go with them."

"No legacy is so rich as honesty,” Samantha retorted.

Julia gave Samantha a high five, this action showing off their matching manicures and pink polish. “Using Shakespeare against the master,” she crowed, “very nice.”

Mason looked to his mate as Samantha departed the foyer and moved into the living room, where several family members had already congregated. “Whose side are you on, here, Julia?” he demanded.

"Hey, I’m pulling for a Capwell,” Julia laughed.

In the family room, across from an antique wood burning fireplace, Kelly Hartley was seated with her parents. The younger woman was looking visibly distressed. “How are you doing, Mom?” she solicited. “Nick and I have been pretty worried about you since the spring.”

"I'm just fine, Kelly,” Sophia lied, she still shaken by the revelations she had experienced a few months prior.

"Mom, you met us at the Orient Express last June with no memory of how you got there.”

"It was a stressful time, relocating Armonti,” Sophia falsely explained. Along with her stepdaughter, Jenna, Kelly was now running Armonti Industries from its brand new L.A. offices.

"We both know there was more to it than that,” Kelly intuited. “Did you at least talk to Marcello about it?”

Sophia’s face paled, as she shared a worried look with C.C., the only person she had confided in regarding the recovered memories of her stepson’s abusive behaviour. “Yes,” she offered coldly, after a short pause. “I gained some great insight from those conversations.”

Kelly turned to face her father, not feeling appeased by Sophia’s answer. “Daddy?” she pressured.

C.C. took Kelly’s hands in his. “Not the best time, Kitten,” he reassured his youngest daughter, in a voice that was so effortlessly soothing. “But everything is fine now, you can trust me on that.”

Kelly raised her hands in surrender, although this would prove to be a temporary withdrawal on her part.

Across the room, nestled into a small sun nook, Santa Barbara Fire Chief Mikey Donnelly, was sitting across from his parental in-laws, whose wedding he felt blessed to have both shared and participated in. “So how is married life treating you two?” he asked Cruz and Eden, who were both dressed in their Sunday best.

Cruz smiled deeply, his sense of serenity readily apparent. “Bliss,” he responded simply, before turning to Eden. “Bliss; right, darlin’?”

Eden grinned and took Cruz’s tawny hands in hers, as she flipped back her still blonde hair. “Bliss sounds good to me,” she softly agreed, having found a sense of inner peace that had eluded her for 30 years. “But I’m sure we don’t have to tell you that, Mikey.”

Mikey looked across the room to his beloved wife, Adriana, who was deep in conversation with her Uncles Greg, Ted, and Brick. The young lady positively glowed, her red knee-length dress seeming flat in comparison. Although even they did not yet know it, Adriana was three weeks into her first pregnancy. This would be Cruz and Eden’s third grandchild, with Chip and Stella having recently welcomed a second little one into their own family.

"No,” Mikey declared happily, “you surely do not.”

"And don’t call me Shirley!” Cruz and Mikey both blurted out, this clearly not for the first time.

"Yikes,” Eden uttered, as her face dropped into raised hands. Not for the first time she realized that even though she was Cruz’s soulmate, he had found a bromate in Mikey Donnelly, despite their being a generation removed.

"Yeah, yeah, I know,” Cruz commiserated with his bride, “I used to be cool.”

"You’re still pretty dope, Dad,” Mikey extended.

"Thanks, brother,” Cruz accepted to Eden’s exaggerated chagrin.

Mason approached his son, Roger, where he excused them both from the elder Michael Donnelly. They strode to Mason’s small study, this filled to the brim with law journals. Roger sat in one of a pair of wing chairs positioned across from a streaked window that overlooked the 1/4 hectare yard. “Roger,” Mason started, while pouring his son an alcoholic version of his virgin Screwdriver, “have I ever said how proud I am of you?”

Roger, as close a facsimile as a son could be, beamed and clenched his father’s hands tightly, albeit briefly. “Constantly, Dad,” he spoke in a soft tenor, “and I appreciate it.”

"You and Mitch have been through so much,” Mason stressed, “but you never lost faith in the system or each other.”

"I’ve always had great support,” Roger confessed.

"I’m embarrassed to admit that I wasn’t always a great support to my family,” Mason accurately claimed, “and was certainly a slave to my own prejudices. Did I ever tell you that your Uncle Channing was gay? Or bisexual more accurately.”

Roger straightened in his seat and crossed his right leg over his left. “No, you never did,” the younger man responded.

"It was a time when there was lots of fear and lots of ignorance,” Mason reflected quietly, thinking back to that self-destructive period, nearly 40 years spent. “I found out years after my brother died, and I’m ashamed to say I used the information to try to hurt my father. It was one of my most profound mistakes.”

Roger nodded. He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward and rested his hand on his father’s khaki covered knee. “I firmly believe in the ability of people to change,” he disclosed, “and you’ve done that in spades it sounds like. You were an amazing dad and you’ve made Mitch feel so welcome.”

"He is a lovely man,” Mason offered of his son-in-law. “You know, that’s a good thing about having spent countless years being a royal jerk,” he laughed. “People become enamoured by the most inconsequential of turnarounds.”

"So, Sam, falling behind the curve again, hey?” Chip Castillo asked of his favourite stepcousin and one-time wife, as she pivoted away from the kitchen island to face him. “Marriage, kids, nada.”

Samantha smirked and slapped Chip lightly on his left cheek. “Oh no, how will I ever survive outside on the perimeter of human convention?” she joked, while taking a sip from the Mike's Hard Lemonade bottle she held.

Chip simpered as he reached over and took a swig of Samantha's beverage. “Job good?” he explored, as he made a face at the taste of the pomegranate blueberry drink. "Ugh, no wonder your dad's on the wagon."

"It is certainly getting interesting,” Samantha advanced, ignoring Chip's aside. “The money pit deepens, but I really feel I’m doing such worthwhile work. Have you thought about getting back into the fray?” she wondered, her cousin having fallen into a deep depression following his mother’s suicide of the year before.

Chip stared ahead wistfully. “I actually have a new production starting next week,” he relayed. “It’s off-off-off Broadway. Jersey actually, but I need to start out small.”

"No shame in that,” Samantha opined. “And how’s the hand doing?” she inquired, referring to his injury, this courtesy of the demented and deceased Kirk Cranston.

Chip looked down at his left hand, both sides of which bore a jagged scar; they were scars he cherished in a strange way. “I could do without the winters, but all in all, my progress has been pretty fucking amazing,” he exulted as he made a fist. “If you're ever in need of a physical therapist, Chelsea Hutchinson is incredible.”

"You’re a miracle of medical science,” Samantha professed as she pulled Chip into a familial embrace. “I’m so proud of you, cuz.”

"Attention everyone!” bellowed a stocky, 31-year-old man, with shoulder length ginger hair. Conversations slowly ceased and everyone congregated in the family room. Mitch Sanders was standing in front of the fireplace, arm around Roger, who was holding two glasses of champagne.

Roger looked to his left, where Sophia and C.C. were sitting on a beige loveseat. Nestled in C.C.’s powerful arms was his six-month-old great granddaughter. Both of them, the oldest and the youngest in the room, were sporting matching seraphic smiles.

"To Bridget Capwell,” Roger toasted. “Mitch got to pick the first name, I get the last. Good trade, Grandpa?”

A contented C.C. looked up to his grandson and then scanned the faces of his other family members. “Good trade,” the man gratefully acknowledged. “We’ve been through a lot this family, and I am so proud of you all,” he avowed, his voice deep and strong. “Pain and disappointment, they tend to consume us when we aren’t looking; Heaven knows I have fallen prey more often than most. But when I see this little girl, I see the future of the Capwell family, and I realize the bad is fleeting. It warms my heart to know the family will carry on long after my passing.”

A teary Sophia gently squeezed C.C.’s scapula with her right hand and smiled, while she stroked Bridget’s chubby face with her left. “To Bridget and to the Capwells,” she proclaimed, this leading off the choir.

“To Bridget and the Capwells!” sounded the Greek chorus.

It was a chorus that would prove to be tragic and timeless, loving and long, fragile and forever, exquisite and enduring; a chorus that would sing within each of them and in all of the generations to come.

Based on characters created by Bridget and Jerome Dobson in association with New World Television and the National Broadcasting Company.