An Unlikely Love (13 page)

“No, quite the contrary. I was very moved by your plea on behalf of those who must bear abuse in silence because society has, heretofore, ignored this problem. I think, as you stated so eloquently, that it is time that was changed.”

Clarice corked her inkwell, put it in the wood box with her other writing supplies and hooked the latch. “The editor of the
Sunday School Journal
asked me to do a feature piece on one of the lectures or classes here at Chautauqua. I've chosen yours. I've titled it ‘Mercy and Sacrifice.' And I included your plea for those who are interested in starting a temperance group to also provide a place where those women and children who suffer the abuse caused by the overindulgence in wine and other alcoholic beverages can shelter and be safe until the imbiber sobers and the danger passes. As you said, ‘a place where they will receive understanding instead of judgment and not be made to feel shame.'”

“Clarice...” She pressed her hand to her chest, shook her head in disbelief. “I—I'm stunned. I don't know what to say.”

Her tent mate smiled. “Perhaps this will help you think of something. I added a plea for the churches who receive the
Journal
to rise to the call of mercy and meet the need.” Her smile faded away. “The
Sunday School Journal
has a monthly circulation of over one hundred thousand. Hopefully, many of them will answer the call.”

“Clarice!”
The squeal was out before she could stop it. She clapped her hands over her mouth.

Clarice burst into laughter. “Well, that should wake all of our neighbors.”

“I don't care!
One hundred thousand!
Oh, Clarice, thank you!” She surged from her chair, whirled across the small space and enveloped Clarice in a huge hug.

Chapter Eleven

“A
nd you've been living in a
tent
this whole time?”

Marissa couldn't hold back her smile. Mrs. Winston looked appalled. “It's truly not as bad as it sounds. The tent is quite spacious with tall walls, a high sloped ceiling and a wood floor. My tent mate and I each have a cot and our trunks, a chair and an oil lamp. We share a small desk, a washstand and a large clean tree root system on which we hang our coats and some clothes.”

“A root system!” Mrs. Winston shook her head and went back to dicing carrots.

“It works quite well.” She sliced the rutabaga she'd peeled in half, then cut each half into thick slices.

“And you have a—what did you call her?”

“A tent mate.” She lined up the slices for dicing, paused at the sound of boots thudding against the porch floor.

“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Winston dropped her knife, wiped her hands on a towel and hurried to a cupboard across the room.

The door was shoved open and Grant burst into the kitchen. “Mother, Charlie cut himself. I need a cloth to bind his hand until I can get him to the doctor.”

“Here it is.” Mrs. Winston hurried toward him, a narrow roll of white cotton in her hand. “Do you need me to come wrap his hand?”

“No. I'll do it.” He backed toward the door, glanced her way. “I can't stay, Marissa. I have to take Charlie's place to get...” His boots pounded against the porch.

She stared at the door, her heart pounding. “I hope the man will be all right.”

“He will be.” Mrs. Winston resumed dicing the carrots. “Dr. Fletcher is good at sewing them up.”

Her stomach objected to the idea. She looked down, wielded the knife in her hand with new respect. “What did Grant mean, he'll have to take Charlie's place? I couldn't hear the last of what he said.”

“Grant is determined to finish this harvest today. The overcast skies do not look promising, and if it rains they will have to stop picking and wait for the fruit and vines to dry. That can cause mildew, or the grapes can get overripe and spoil, which means no sale.” Mrs. Winston tossed the diced carrots in a bowl and started peeling potatoes. “Now Grant has lost one of the pickers. He'll step in and pick in Charlie's place as well as direct the harvest so he can be done before the rain comes.”

“I see.” She tossed the diced rutabaga in the bowl and glanced out the window at the gray cloudy day, torn between wanting the rain to come and ruin the grapes and the weather to hold so Grant could finish the harvest. Nothing was clear-cut anymore. She held back the sigh that wanted expression and began dicing the peeled potatoes.

“I wonder if you would do me a favor, Marissa.”

She glanced over at Mrs. Winston, who had carried away the vegetable peelings in a small bucket and was now preparing wash water for the dishes. “Of course, if I'm able. What is it?”

“I've been praying about what you said the other day about women and children who are treated badly by their spouse or parent who overindulge, and about Sarah Swan and the other women who came here to protest our growing grapes.”

Mrs. Winston came toward the table, a wet, soapy rag in her hand. “Would you add those vegetables to the soup stock please, Marissa?”

She carried the bowl to the stove wondering what was coming.

The table was cleaned with a few vigorous swipes of the soapy rag. “And I think the Lord would be pleased if I did something to help.”

Her breath caught. She stirred the vegetables into the stock and waited while Mrs. Winston rinsed the soap from the cloth and returned.

“So...” The rinsed cloth swished over the table. Mrs. Winston gave it a last swipe then stepped over beside her and picked up the empty bowl. “When we get these dishes done, will you go with me to Swan's store to talk with Sarah? The soup can sit and simmer unattended, and I don't want those women suffering alone anymore, Marissa. Not while I've got this big empty house.”

Her jaw dropped. She stood there with the spoon in her hand, too shocked to speak.

“You're dripping.”

She gathered her wits, put the spoon down and smiled. “I'd be honored to accompany you to the store, Mrs. Winston.” She couldn't stop herself, didn't want to. She loved Grant's mother. She threw her arms around Mrs. Winston and hugged, squeezed words past the lump in her constricted throat. “May God bless you for your warm, caring heart.”

The bowl clattered against the stove. Mrs. Winston's arms closed around her and returned her hug. “He already has, Marissa. He already has.”

* * *

“It's over, Marissa. The harvest is finished!” Grant whooped, grasped her by her small waist, lifted her into the air and spun in circles.

She grabbed his shoulders to brace herself, laughing down at him. “You'd better hush and put me down or our secret spot won't be a secret any longer.”

“Hmm, we can't have that.” He lowered her until her face was level with his, then, unable to resist, claimed her lips. Her arms slipped around his neck and her lips parted, trembled against his. His heart thudded, knocked against his chest wall in a wild hammering that stole his breath.
Help me, Lord. I don't want to let her go. Not now. Not ever.

He crushed her to him, lowered his forehead to her hair, closed his eyes and breathed in the soft, feminine scent that clung to her. “I'll be going to the bank tomorrow to straighten out the finances for the vineyard, my mother's living and my own plans, Marissa. After that I'll be free to—”

“Don't, Grant. Please don't say any more.”

He watched the tears in her eyes pool, tremble and slide down her cheeks, and made an effort to get control of his emotions. “I'm sorry, Marissa, I misunderstood. I thought you would welcome my—” Her fingertip touched his lips, soft, warm... He fought the desire to kiss it.

“You didn't misunderstand, Grant. I don't want you to say anything until everything is resolved. And—and I don't s-see how it can be.” Her lips quivered. Her whole body trembled in his arms. “I try. I truly try, Grant. But every time I look at those grapevines I see my father's hand poised to strike. I see Lincoln, and all the hurt and misery and waste—” Her lips pressed together. Her eyes closed, hiding her pain from him.

He tightened his arms and held her.

* * *

The rain clattered against the porch roof, splattered on the stone walk and pattered against the wind-whipped leaves of the vines. Grant leaned against the porch post, his mind's eye seeing the destruction such a storm would wreak on grapes waiting to be picked.
Thank You, Lord, that the harvest is finished.

He shifted his weight and scrubbed his free hand over the back of his neck. It was odd to think he'd never have to worry about another harvest. Truth be told, after all these years, the vines had almost become a part of him. He'd miss walking among the sloping trellises checking for mildew and rot, pruning vines and watching the fruit develop until their dark purple clusters gave off the rich, robust aroma that hovered like a cloud beneath the concords' leafy canopy.

Of course, he'd always liked riding the steamers. But he wasn't sure how he'd like doing it all day long. It didn't seem as if there'd be much to keep a man occupied. But there was no use speculating about it. He'd find out soon enough. He'd have the Oakwood Winery bank draft tomorrow.

He frowned, wiped misty moisture from his face and shoved a damp lock of hair off his forehead. That was another odd thing, him taking care of the finances. Why, he didn't even know how much money had accumulated in the bank from his share of the harvests profits they'd earned since he'd been managing the care of the vineyard. He only knew it would be sizable. His father had never been forthcoming about finances, and he'd never pressed him.

That little curl of worry twisted in his gut. He shifted his position to lean on the other shoulder and shoved his hands in his pockets. He'd be rid of that annoyance tomorrow.

The kitchen door creaked and the aroma of coffee wafted through the rain-washed air. He turned and smiled at his mother, not much more than a shadow in the dark. The oil lamps by the door proved of little use against the black stormy night. She walked to his side, held out a heavy stoneware cup. A pang pricked his heart.
Don't give me one of those fancy, flimsy china things. If I'm gonna have a cup of coffee, I want a real cup.
“Dad's cup?” He slipped his two middle fingers through the handle and curled his hand around the cup the way he'd learned from watching his father.

“You're the man of the house now. Not that you haven't been carrying a man's weight around here for several years. It's a...symbolic thing.” She gave him a wobbly little smile, patted his arm then moved to stand by the railing. “This porch was your father's favorite place. He said he did his best thinking out here.”

He watched his mother's hand glide back and forth on the railing, lifted his gaze to her face soft with memories. He could never ask her to leave this house. And she couldn't live here without him. He glanced out at the vines, clenched his fingers around the cup.
Lord, I need an answer.

“Are you standing out here contemplating your good fortune in having the harvest finished before this storm hits?”

He pulled his gaze back to his mother. “Something like that.”

She gave a little nod. “You're a good deal like your father, Grant.”

There was a thickness to her voice. Time to change the tone of the conversation. “It's learned behavior.” He grinned and took a sip of the hot brew.

She nodded, took a breath and straightened. “This is a real downpour. I hope Marissa is warm and dry. I can't
imagine
living in a tent in this weather.”

Her name stuck in his heart like a dagger. He'd been trying to hold thoughts of her at bay, to not remember her deep pain that might keep them apart. No. He'd have the money tomorrow. He'd work it out. Somehow he'd work it all out. He pulled in a breath of coffee-scented air. “It sounds like you've gotten spoiled, Mother. I remember hearing tales of some pretty sparse living conditions in your early years as a bride.” He forced another grin. “At least Marissa's tent has a roof.”

“That big old harvest table sheltered us well enough until your father got the roof put on the house.”

His mother giggled like a young girl.

The teasing banter was doing them both good. He took another stab at it. “So I've heard. But then I've seen that table, and it's pretty narrow.” He waggled his eyebrows.

“Grant Zephaniah Winston!”

He laughed and tapped her cheek. “Is that a blush I see, Mother?”

She jerked back and shoved his hand away. “You behave yourself, Grant. You know full well you can't see anything in this dark, and so do I.”

All the same, her hand lifted and touched her cheek. He chuckled and took another swallow of coffee.

The rain increased, fell like a gray curtain on the other side of the railing. Closed them in. It was a good night for talking. Sharing...

“I like Marissa, Grant. I've tried to guard my heart around her, but she's so...so...”

He took a breath and spoke it out. “Lovable?”

She gave him one of her looks. “Your description?”

He took a last swallow and tossed the rest of the suddenly tasteless coffee out into the night. “Yes. Almost from the first meeting.”

“I thought so.” She lifted her hands from the railing, brushed the spattering of rain from them and cupped his face. “Marissa loves you, too. Though I'm not certain she knows it.”

His heart clenched. Not even his mother's touch could make this all better. “There are...challenges.”

She stepped back and looked up, studied his face. “I've never known you to run from a challenge.”

“Who says I'm running?”

A slow smile curved her lips. She gave a small, satisfied nod and touched his arm. “I'll pray.”

* * *

The drumming of the rain on the tent roof was so loud she couldn't even hear the corn husks crackle when she moved. Marissa rose, shivered at the touch of the damp, cool air and groped around the foot of her cot in the inky darkness searching for her dressing gown and slippers. Her little toe bumped against the corner of her trunk.

“Ow!... Ow!... Ow!...” She plopped down on the cot and grabbed her toe, rocking back and forth. The back of her hand bumped her slippers. She pulled them on, fumbled around and found her dressing gown, tugged it on and lifted the domed lid of her trunk. Her fingers found what she was seeking. She carried the stationery box to the desk guided by the tiny glow of the oil lamp's lowered wick, then twisted the knob until the light fell in a golden circle on the table.

There was no need for quiet. She sat and arranged her stationery paper, uncorked her inkwell and dipped her pen.

Dearest Mother,

It is raining. A veritable deluge! The drumming of the raindrops on the tent is so loud I find sleep impossible. To my amazement there is not a single leak! The night air has taken on a decided chill, but my dressing gown and slippers keep me warm.

In my last letter I shared the information about my tent mate, Miss Clarice Gordon. I am writing now to give you further news. Miss Gordon has been assigned the task of writing a feature article for the
Sunday School Journal
on a subject or lecture, of her choosing, given here at Chautauqua. Miss Gordon has chosen my most recent lecture for this honor.

She paused and stared into the darkness, considering how to continue. It was almost certain that her mother would not be pleased with the content of her lecture. And it was positively certain that her father would not. She sighed and dipped her pen.

The subject of my chosen lecture is the abused victims of those who overindulge in wine or other strong drink. In it I explain how the women and children who are abused need a place where they can shelter and be safe until the imbiber sobers and the danger passes. And I urge those interested in starting temperance groups in their towns to provide such a place. I am going to work to establish such a place when I return home, Mother. I hope you will join with me in this work.