An Unlikely Love (11 page)

“Please, don't feel you have to explain, Grant. Your place is with your mother.” Her hand tightened on his arm. “She is a strong woman, but she still needs the comfort of her son. And I would expect no less of you.”

The kindness and understanding in her eyes soothed his concern. He nodded, took hold of her hands and pulled her around to face him. “Thank you for understanding about Mother, Marissa, but there's more.” He heard her quick intake of breath, hated what he had to tell her. “The pickers are coming daily, and I have to manage the harvest. And now, since I've inherited Father's estate, handling the business and the finances for the vineyard and for the house and Mother has also fallen to me.”

Her gaze slid away from his. “So much responsibility will take a good deal of your time.”

She understood!
“Yes. My days are taken up with the vineyard and my evenings with going over my father's records to familiarize myself with the finances. And that means I have no time to try and find a man qualified to take my place managing the vineyard—or to inquire about buying the
Jamestown.
That's the steamer I told you was for sale.” He took a breath, laid it out clear. “My plans for the future have to be delayed. And I'm afraid I won't be able to come to Chautauqua to see you any longer.”

“I see. Well, then—”

The
Colonel Phillips
's
whistle blew.

She pulled her hands from his grasp and stepped back, lifted her chin. The sunset glow piercing through the leafy canopy overhead fell on her taut features. His heart lurched. “Marissa, what—”

“Please don't say anything more, Grant. I understand that your situation has changed and—and I wish you well.” Her smile looked forced. She glanced at the water, squared her shoulders and looked back at him. “Please tell your mother goodbye for me.”

“Goodbye?” He stared at her, dumbfounded. “What are you saying? That you're unwilling to give me more time? That you're through with me?”

Her eyes widened. “I thought you were saying you no longer had time for me.”

“What? No.” He stepped forward and drew her into his arms. “I was going to ask if you would give me until the harvest is over and I've had time to straighten out the finances to start working on my plan for the future. And if, in the meantime, you would mind making the trip here to Mayville to see me. I know you don't like to ride the steamer.”

“You're not saying goodbye?”

“I'd sooner cut off my arm. Well...maybe not my arm...” He smiled and tightened his embrace.

She stared up at him, blinked, then fastened her gaze on his and nodded. “I could get used to riding the steamer.”

* * *

Marissa shunned the cabin and stood by the railing to watch the lights of the railroad station fade into the distance. The flesh over her ribs was still warm from Grant's arms holding her close.

She sighed and drew her gaze toward the dock, now merely a dark smudge on the water at the edge of the lake. Was Grant still standing there watching the
Colonel Phillips
growing smaller as it steamed away? Did men even do that sort of thing? And what did it matter? Grant had too great a demand on his time to stand idle and watch a steamer disappear.

The thought sobered her. Grant now owned the vineyard and the house. They went together. Her stomach curled. He had said his plans for the future were delayed—and she didn't doubt that he meant it...now. But what about after the shock of his father's death had passed, and he'd had time to think about everything? The Winston house was beautiful and comfortable and his mother's home. How could he move away and leave his mother in that large house alone? That would be cruel. And it would be foolish and wasteful and...and selfish of him to sell it and buy another, even if he moved his mother in with him. And Grant was not a selfish man. She wouldn't admire and respect him if he were.

It will be interesting to see how the Lord works things out.

If only God could. She had never cared for a man the way she cared for Grant. And when he took her into his arms... The memory brought forth a sigh. Grant Winston made her forget her determination to never fall in love or marry.

The steamer headed around the outcropping and the lights of Mayville disappeared. So did her romantic dreams. It would be lovely if she could believe there might be a future to the relationship, the...
attraction
she shared with Grant, but it was impossible. She admired Mrs. Winston's faith and Grant's determination but, try as she might, she couldn't rid herself of her doubts.
Almighty God, forgive me my unbelief, I pray. And let me be wrong, O Lord. Please let me be wrong.

Her face tightened. It was foolishness to pray such a thing. There was no possible way of overcoming all of the obstacles that stood in the way of her having a serious relationship with Grant no matter how she might want that to happen. Those lush vines would soon wrap around her heart and choke off any love that might grow there. And there was no way to stop that from happening. No possible way.

Chapter Nine

A
bright yellow leaf drifted down and landed on her open Bible. Marissa admired its color, brilliant in the sunshine, then lifted her head and looked up at the branches overhanging the bench where she sat. The leaves were all green except one small cluster of bright yellow reminders that summer was passing.

The doubts she'd been trying to quench with her Bible reading surfaced again. The assembly would soon be over. Would Grant's grape harvest be finished before it was time for her to go home? Did that even matter now? Everything had become more complicated by his father's death. How could Grant manage all of his new responsibilities
and
find a way to pursue their complex relationship on top of his grief? It was better, less hurtful, to simply let it go. Why couldn't she do that? Why couldn't she stop thinking of Grant and longing to see him?

She picked the leaf up by its stem and twisted it back and forth between her thumb and finger wishing she could know the serenity she'd observed in Grant's mother instead of the constant sense of unease she'd lived with for the five years since her father had begun drinking wine. He'd turned from her protector to the one she most feared and made their home a place of tension and apprehension instead of a sanctuary of love and safety. And Lincoln had died. How could she hope to find serenity? It all made her furious!

She threw the leaf to the ground and reached to close the Bible, pausing when a verse caught her eye.
The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust...

Trust?
How could she trust? Everyone had betrayed her. Her father struck her. Her mother stood by and did nothing but cry and plead with him to stop. And Lincoln, whom she'd thought she knew so well, had secretly taken to strong drink. How could she trust anyone?

Tears flooded her eyes. She blinked them away and stared down at the verse. She wanted to trust God. She wanted to trust Grant. And she was trying. She was truly trying, but deep in her heart—

“It's impossible! Do you hear me, God?” She looked up at the sky, battling the tears that were pushing into her eyes. “It's like the situation at home—instead of getting better, things have gotten worse. Grant
owns
that vineyard now. And he has to take care of his mother and that's her home and I
want
him to care for her, and I don't want her to have to leave but—” she clenched her hands into fists “—but every time I see those vines it makes me
ill
. And angry. I—I care about Grant, I truly do. But I can't go against my convictions!” She swiped the tears from her eyes, flipped the Bible closed and surged to her feet. “Our...relationship...cannot grow into something more. It's impossible!”

It will be interesting to see how the Lord works things out.

She caught her breath, hugged the Bible to her chest and closed her eyes, wished Mrs. Winston had never said that to her. She liked Grant's mother so much. She didn't want to disappoint her, to be the cause of her losing faith when things didn't work out with Grant. “Mrs. Winston trusts You, Lord. She is serenely confident that You can do the impossible, that You can make a way where there is no way and bring a blessing where there is no blessing. I pray she is right.”

The plan Grant had offered as their solution flooded into her head along with a dozen others she'd thought of, all flawed. She pressed her lips together and headed for the tent to put away her Bible and prepare for her afternoon lecture. She had a few more days. It would be better...easier...if she told Grant goodbye now, but she wouldn't,
couldn't
. There was a stubborn,
foolish
part of her heart that clung to the hope that Mrs. Winston was right—even if she couldn't believe it.

* * *

“Would you like more meat and gravy, Grant? Or potatoes?”

Grant looked across the table and shook his head. “I'm sorry to have to leave you alone, Mother. But I've got to get back to the vineyard.” He frowned and laid his fork on his plate. “The catawbas are somewhat sparse on the frost-damaged vines, and the pickers tend to slow down. I want to keep them working at their best speed.”

“You don't have to apologize or explain, Grant. This isn't the first harvest I've been through.” She smiled and rose, gathered their dirty plates and flatware. “I'll get your cake.”

He shoved back from the table and dropped his arm around her shoulders. “I'm sorry, Mother, I know you're a veteran at this. It's only...well...never mind.” He gave her a peck on the cheek and straightened. “I'll have the cake later, with supper, after the pickers have gone. This good weather won't hold forever and I want the harvest finished.”

“You sound like your father.” The smile she gave him trembled a little. “He was always worrying about the weather holding during harvest. He always asked me to pray...”

He nodded, wishing he could take away her sorrow, thankful the work of the harvest helped hold his grief at bay. “You'd better pray, Mother! I need your help. We're in this together.”

He stepped to the door and pulled it open, glanced back over his shoulder. “If Marissa comes—”

“I'll entertain her until you come in.”

This time his mother's smile was steady and reached her eyes. “I'm certain you will.” He grinned, gave her a wink and closed the door, then paused a moment and listened to be sure she was all right. He didn't want her crying alone. The soft tap of her shoes against the wood floor moved toward the sink cupboard. Her voice floated out the window.

“Thank You, Abba, Father, for the sunshine and warmth of this beautiful day. Please make the good weather continue until the grapes are all picked and the harvest is over. And thank You, Lord, for bringing Marissa into Grant's life. She is a true blessing to him, and to me, during this sorrowful time. I only wish Andrew had met her.”

The words floating out of the open window had become shaky. He turned and reached for the doorknob. Dishes clinked against the wood cupboard.

“But I'm sure Andrew knows all about her. More even than I do. Oh, Father God, a beautiful, fiery
temperance
advocate and my Grant? They care for each other. I know they do. I can see it in the way they look at one another.” A fork scraped against plates. “And, I confess, the situation between them seems rife with insurmountable problems I see no answer for. But I know with You all things are possible, Lord. You already know the answer. Oh, my! I can't
wait
to see how You work this out!” A soft little laugh and the splashing of water accompanied the end of the prayer.

Grant tiptoed across the porch and down the steps, careful to not let his boots thump, then hurried down the stone path, his heart a little lighter from the sound of his mother's laughter. She believed that God had brought Marissa into his life, and was happy about it.
And she believed that things would work out for them to be together. That was encouraging.

A beautiful, fiery temperance advocate and my Grant
...

A smile tugged at his lips. His mother would be praying for them now. And that was more encouraging yet.

* * *

The lowering sun warmed him, glinted off the flashing blades of the pickers' knives. Grant moved between the trellised rows, letting his presence urge the pickers to greater speed while he counted baskets. It was taking much longer to accumulate two wagonloads because of the damaged or dead vines. He frowned, stepped to one of the gray canes and examined it. There was no sign of returning life. He would dig up the severely frost-damaged catawbas and replace them with concords next spring.

He lifted his head and swept his gaze over the trellises he could see, frowned at the sight of the many gaps. The damage was especially extensive in this part of the vineyard. It would take a lot of time and work. He'd need help. No. He wouldn't be here.

The thought brought him up short. He rubbed his hand over the sun-warmed flesh at the back of his neck, frowned down at the ground and considered his plan in the light of his father's passing. He couldn't leave his mother to live alone in their big house. And he couldn't make her leave the house she'd called home for all of her married years—especially not so soon after her husband's death.

He sucked in a breath and looked at the grapevines stretching out for acres around him. He couldn't stay—not and court Marissa with an eye to making her his bride, which he'd been thinking about more and more. The strong connection, the attraction he'd felt for her right from the first day, grew stronger every time he was with her. But he'd seen the way she reacted when she looked at the vines. He'd told her his plan. Promised her. And it was no small measure of her growing...regard...for him that she had agreed to wait, to give him time to work things out.

But I know with You all things are possible, Lord.

He grasped on to his mother's favorite quote, let it settle the churning unrest. Buying that steamer had to be the first step. He'd figure out the rest when that was done. But he could do nothing without the money due him. And that meant getting this harvest in. He scowled up at the sun sinking toward the western horizon and started for the next row to count the filled baskets. Seven more and they could start loading the wagons.

* * *

Marissa scanned the crowded benches, lifted her gaze to those standing at the sides of the canvas canopy. “As I have said before, the use of alcoholic beverages is more prevalent now than it has ever been in our country. And I urge you to lend your voices and your support to those in your towns and cities who are protesting the sale of strong drink.”

She waited for the stirring that plea always brought to quiet, then took a breath and followed the urging deep within that would not be quenched. “Every sale of strong drink that is stopped is a victory! But I know from my experiences that it's impossible to stop all sales, to close all of the taverns and inns and clubs and other places where men can procure alcoholic beverages. Therefore, before I close my lecture tonight, I would like to suggest that there is something more that you can do, something that will be helpful to those who fall victim to the abuses inflicted upon them by family members who overindulge in wine or other strong drink.”

Reflex raised her hand to the enameled pendant watch pinned to her bodice. Her face tightened. She pushed back the memories and stepped to the edge of the platform. “The first step is one we have already discussed—stop hiding the truth. I know how hard that is—and how necessary.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I joined my voice to those speaking out for temperance because my brother's imbibing of strong drink caused his tragic, accidental and unnecessary death. I started a temperance group in my town. I traveled to other towns and led protest marches and spoke to those who wished to form temperance groups. And I am lecturing here at Chautauqua to spread the message of the danger inherent in strong drink. What I have
not
done is what I am about to encourage you to do.”

The silence was so deep she could feel it. She took a breath and plunged ahead. “I became so focused on stopping the sale of alcoholic drink, I forgot about the needs of those who are suffering the abuses caused by it. I let my anger rule me...and I forgot about mercy.” She drifted her gaze over the faces of the people looking up at her. “If a woman or a child in your town suffers abuse at the hands of an imbiber, where do they go for help? Is there someone in your town who would welcome and care for them? Or do they suffer alone in silence because of their shame?”

There was a quiet stirring.

“It's my experience that most people who want to start temperance groups are interested in doing so because they have either experienced the abuse caused by wine and other strong drink or known someone who has. And if you are planning on starting such a group, I strongly encourage you to do so. But I now encourage you to not only speak out and protest against strong drink, but to also provide a place where those who suffer the abuse caused by it can come when a hand is raised against them.” She reached for her mother's watch, felt the metal dig into her grasping fingertips. “Women and children who are abused need a place where they can shelter and be safe until the imbiber sobers and the danger passes. They need a place where they know they will receive understanding instead of judgment and not be made to feel shame. I am going to work to establish such a place when I return home. I hope you will consider doing the same.”

She released the watch and took a breath, easier now that she had obeyed the urging and the tightness in her chest had eased. “Thank you all for coming and listening to my message. This concludes my lecture, but I will be happy to answer any questions you might have.”

Applause broke out. The sound of a steamer whistle rose over the chatter and rustle and bustle of the people rising from the benches and skirting around support posts to make their way from beneath the canopy.

Was that the
Colonel Phillips
?
She gazed out at the surrounding clearing. She'd spoken too long. It was dusk. Her heart sank at the thought of missing the steamer. Her head told her it was for the best. She lifted her hems and descended the steps to talk with the group of women coming forward.

* * *

Grant opened the door and entered the den, stopped short at the sight of the empty Windsor chair at the long stretcher table his father had used for his desk. A floorboard creaked beneath his weight. It always had, but the sound was loud and obtrusive in the silence. He stepped onto the oval braided rug to muffle his footsteps, remembered the night his mother had recruited him to place the rug beneath the table—after his father had retired and could not object. She'd wanted to be certain her husband's feet and legs were warm after the accident that crippled him.