An Unlikely Love (14 page)

In her article, Miss Gordon also asks the churches who receive the
Journal
to “rise to the call” and establish safe shelters such as I have described above. And now, Mother, for the exciting news. The
Sunday School Journal
has a circulation of over one hundred thousand! Oh, Mother, only think of the many women and children who will be helped if a mere portion of the churches receiving the
Journal
become involved.

She put down her pen and rubbed her arms. The mere thought of all the women and children who might be helped because of this one article set her nerves a-tingle. She only hoped her mother would be one of them. That she would not let her pride stand in the way of getting needed help.

I know you worry that I may be harmed doing temperance work, Mother. But I am quite safe. Shortly after my arrival, I led a small march on a local vineyard to protest their growing grapes. Unfortunately, we were unsuccessful in stopping the wagons that carried the grapes to the winery. But there is a wonderful sequel to that story. I met the vineyard owner's mother, and she is a truly lovely woman. I told her of Miss Gordon's article, and she is opening her home as a place of shelter and safety to the women and children of Mayville who are abused. She is a woman of strong faith, and I feel it is, indeed, the Lord who has guided her to do this. I can think of no other reason why the mother of a vineyard owner would provide shelter for the abused.

I pray this letter finds you well, Mother. My best to Father.

Your loving daughter,

Marissa

She stared down at the letter, remembering how surprised Sarah Swan had been when she and Mrs. Winston entered the Swans' store together. And Sarah had been dumbfounded when Mrs. Winston explained her purpose. She shook her head, still a little dazed and disbelieving herself. But it was true. Sarah Swan was going to tell the other women, and they were all going to Mrs. Winston's home to work out the details of establishing a shelter.

The abused women were going to have a shelter at the very vineyard where they had protested. It was...unbelievable.

Fortunately, there is nothing too difficult for the Lord
.

Mrs. Winston's words. Mrs. Winston's faith.

She took the letter into her hands and read what she had written. It was all unbelievable. And it was only part of what had happened.

Grant. Perhaps...

The doubts pounced. All of the reasons why Grant's plan would never work tumbled through her mind. Her heart wanted to believe. Her head called her a fool.

She sealed and addressed the letter, left it on the desk to be posted when she went to Mayville and put her stationery box in the trunk.

Rain beat against the canvas. Wind slapped against the walls, bulging them in and sucking them out again. She returned to the desk, lowered the wick in the lamp and made her way back to her cot in the dark. A quick shrug removed her dressing gown. She stepped out of her slippers and climbed beneath the covers blinded by the black night. She turned her head toward the desk and stared at the tiny spot of light in the darkness.

Thoughts of Grant's kiss washed over her, would not be denied. Warmth crawled into her heart, then into her cheeks at the memory of her response. What had come over her? She had slapped the only other man who had tried to kiss her. And they had been courting a few months at the time. But it was so...different. She
wanted
Grant to kiss her. She wanted to be in his arms. How was it possible that she felt safe in his strong embrace?

Fortunately, there is nothing too difficult for the Lord.

She turned onto her back, closed her eyes and shrugged off Mrs. Winston's words. Even if they were true, why would the Lord be interested in her relationship with Grant?

Chapter Twelve

A
shadow flowed across the faces of the buildings that lined the street. Grant paused on the side of the walkway to let a wagon pass by and glanced up at the sky. The sun was playing hide-and-seek with another dark cloud. But that was all right. He didn't have to worry about those rain clouds anymore.

He grinned and patted the pocket over his heart. An apt place for the Oakwood Winery's bank draft to be, since it was the ticket to his heart's desire. His grin broadened.

“You look like a cat that's cornered a mouse, Winston.”

He turned his head in the direction of the voice. A tall, thin man with a limp was coming up the walk toward him. “I haven't got it cornered yet, Fleming. But I'm working on it.”

Harold Fleming chuckled and tipped his hat. “Well, keep up the fight.”

Grant lifted his hand in farewell and strode across the street, impatience driving him. Dillon Douglas had kept him talking for an hour, telling him how good the concords were—as if he didn't already know. He was the one who had brought them into the vineyard.

“Good afternoon, Grant Winston.”

Oh, no.
He halted, doffed his hat to the town chatterbox. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Chesterson.”

The plump woman stood in the middle of the walkway and looked up him. “I was so sorry to hear about your father's passing, Grant. My sincere condolences.”

“That's very kind of you. Thank you.” He glanced over her shoulder hoping she would take the hint and let him pass.

“And to your dear mother, of course.”

He dipped his head.
Perhaps if he didn't talk—

“How is Ruth holding up?” She tipped her head to the side, straightened her hat. “I hope her grief isn't making her ill.”

That's not what her eyes said. Her eyes said she hoped there was a good story she could pass along. “Not at all.” He fixed a steady gaze on her. “Mother's faith gives her strength.”

“Yes. Yes, of course it does. Well, I must be going. Tilda Forrest is unwell, and I want to drop by and see if there's anything I can do to help her.” She pulled a penny candy from her purse and popped it into her mouth. “Remember me to your dear mother.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgment and stepped to the side of the walkway. “My greetings to Carl.”

She sailed by and he dodged around a sleeping dog waiting outside the barbershop for its owner, trotted up the four steps to the bank's entrance and opened the door. Fred Gardner peered at him from behind his barred window.

“May I help you, Mr. Winston?”

He shook his head, too focused on his quest to tease his old friend about the formality. “I need to see Mr. Taylor. Is he in?”

“If you'll wait here, I'll—”

“Fred.” He shot him a look.

“He's in. Go on back.”

He strode through the archway at the back of the room into the hallway and knocked on the door on his left.

“Come in.”

The banker's office was large and sober with oak-paneled walls and a high domed ceiling. A five-lamp chandelier dangled by a chain from the highest point. He removed his hat, hung it on the rack that stood beside the door and moved forward, his steps muffled by a red-patterned oriental rug.

“Ah, Grant. I've been expecting you to come in to see me.” Walter Taylor rose and came around his desk, his hand outstretched in welcome. “I'm sorry about your loss, Grant. Your father was a fine, upright man. I enjoyed doing business with him.”

“Thank you, sir.” Grant shook the banker's hand, calloused from the whittling he enjoyed doing in the evening.

“I assume this visit means that your grapes have all been harvested in spite of that little bit of trouble you had. Most interesting watching Sarah Swan and the other women march through town holding their signs and singing. I sympathize with their cause, having seen some of the damage imbibing can do to a man's good sense. But I find their methods ineffective.” Walter Taylor waved a hand toward a chair and stepped back behind his desk. “I admired your solution. I imagine it saved a lot of hurt feelings.”

“Perhaps. But I disagree that the women were ineffective.” It might not have been the wisest thing to do, but he couldn't ignore the urge to speak out in Marissa's defense. “The women may have failed in their initial aim of preventing our grapes from reaching Douglas's winery, but they have succeeded in calling attention to their plight.” He dropped down into the leather-padded chair indicated and answered the question that was put to him. “We finished picking at dusk yesterday.”

“You were fortunate. Bringing in those concords was a smart move, Grant.” The banker gave him an approving look. “Most of the grapes in the other vineyards in the area are only beginning to ripen. I'm afraid that storm last night will cost most of those vineyard owners a pretty penny. Now, what can I do for you?”

“Well, I'm a little at a loss as to actual numbers here. My father didn't like to discuss finances. But I know he took out a demand note last year to carry us through until this year's harvest.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bank draft, then leaned forward and placed it on the desk. “I'll pay that note off, of course. And then we'll handle the rest of the profits the usual way. My percentage and the remainder will go into the vineyard account.”

Walter Taylor picked up the bank draft, studied it a moment then looked at him over the top of his glasses. “What about the other payment?”

That curl of worry he'd been carrying around in his stomach until the harvest was over turned into a tight knot. “What other payment?”

“The annual payment on the mortgage your father carried on the house and vineyard is due.”

“A mortgage! On the house and vineyard?”

“I'm afraid so.”

Best we can do, I guess. It'll help.

So this was what his father had been worrying about. “I had no idea.” His face tightened. He rose and walked about the room, came back and sat. “Is there enough money in the draft to cover both payments?”

“Oh, yes.” The banker nodded, tapped the draft against his palm. “And with enough left over to comfortably carry both household and vineyard through to next year's harvest. Barring any unforeseen problems or expenses, of course.”

Which meant there was no money to hire a man to take his place managing the vineyard. The knot in his stomach tightened. “And my percentage?”

Walter Taylor shook his head. “There'll be nothing left to pay your percentage, I'm afraid.”

His year's wages, gone. He'd been counting on that money to buy the
Jamestown
.

Marissa...

He jerked his mind from the thought of her. He had to concentrate, to think of what to do. He took another turn around the room trying to assimilate the information he'd been given and to figure out what questions he should ask. He had to know what he was facing. “How much longer does the mortgage have to run?”

“Next year's payment will be the last.”

He nodded, scrubbed his hand over his neck. It wasn't unmanageable. The newest concords he'd planted would be producing in the coming year, and that would increase next year's yield at harvest. The vineyard could survive, though he wouldn't be able to hire anyone to help him run it this coming year. He'd thought he'd be free. He'd promised Marissa...

He pushed that problem aside for the moment and focused on his own finances. He'd never withdrawn any money from his share of the account. His father had told him just to come to him for any money or need... Yes. His plan might still work out with a little altering. He would have to forget about buying the steamer, but there should be more than enough to buy a house and furnishings. That would allow him to live away from the vineyard while he courted Marissa. And with his wages from the vineyard to provide a living...He would explain it was only for one year... Yes. His plan was salvageable.

The knot loosened a little. His breath came easier. “One more question, Mr. Taylor. I would like to know the amount of my share of the account.”

The banker looked up at him, took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I'm afraid that's more bad news, Grant. There is no money in the account.” He settled his glasses back on his nose then rested his hands on his desk. “Your father used your share of the money to pay off a few notes when profits were low. He meant to pay you back, of course, but the money was never there...”

He had nothing.
It took him like the kick of an angry horse, drove the breath from his lungs. He rose and strode to the door, lifted his hat from the rack and walked out of the room.

* * *

Marissa closed the front door and led Judith Moore into the sitting room, the way a daughter of the house would. Her heart warmed at the thought and her imagination took flight.

“Judith, come in.”

Mrs. Winston's voice brought her back to earth. She left Judith to seat herself on the settee next to Sarah Swan and moved to stand beside the door that led to the dining room and kitchen.

“Welcome, everyone.”

She looked at Mrs. Winston standing in front of the stone fireplace then swept her gaze over the women in the room. They looked—

“My, my, ladies, I must say you all look a bit stiff and uncomfortable, and I can't imagine why. You've all been here before.”

Her gasp was lost among those of the other women. She darted a look at Grant's mother, noted the glint of humor in her eyes and understood. “Not by invitation.”

“Too true!” Mrs. Winston laughed and after a moment of shocked silence the others joined in.

“That's better.” Mrs. Winston stepped closer to the group. “Ladies, this feels far too formal and...well...stodgy for our purposes. Let's hold our meeting over tea and cookies on the back porch. It's this way.”

She watched the women following Mrs. Winston to the door, then hurried to the kitchen for the tea tray and carried it outside.

“Thank you, Marissa.” Mrs. Winston smiled and touched her arm. “We are discussing possible ways of reaching women and children in the area who we aren't acquainted with, but who may need our help, with the news of our shelter. When we have worked out all of the details of course.”

Our shelter.
How gracious of Mrs. Winston to include the others in her idea. She grew more fond of the woman every day. “I've passed the newspaper building on my way to and from the dock.” She placed the tray in front of Mrs. Winston so she could pour the tea. “I should think news of such a shelter would be of interest to the editor. I'm certain he would write up an editorial piece about it. And he might be willing to print copies announcing the founding of the shelter that you could distribute.”

“Posters announcing the shelter. That's exactly what we need.” Mrs. Winston beamed approval at her.

“We could ask the different churches to display them.”

“Ina, that's a wonderful idea!” Lily smiled, lifted a cookie from the tray and passed it on. “Perhaps some of the women would join us in caring for those who need help. Not everyone lives here in town.”

“I'll post a notice in the store.”

“Oh, Sarah. Will Mr. Swan allow you to do that?”

The suggestions and comments went on and on. Marissa studied the faces of the women gathered around the table. They looked so different than they had on the day of the march. They'd been so grim that day. Now there was purpose and dignity and...hope in their expressions. They were no longer alone.

“Ladies, these are all wonderful ideas! But before we approach anyone about spreading news of our shelter, we must decide what we will say in the announcements. Why, we haven't even got a name.” Mrs. Winston swept her gaze around the table. “What shall we call our shelter, ladies? Any suggestions?”

The women looked at each other, nodded and in one voice said, “The Twin Eagle Vineyard Shelter for the Abused.”

Impossible.
Marissa bit back the word.

Sarah Swan squared her shoulders. “Unless you prefer not, Ruth.”

“Why, I would be honored, Sarah.”

A vineyard that shelters the abused?
Marissa left the women discussing the wording of the announcement and stepped to the porch railing. Sunlight and cloud shadow moved across the lush vines toward the access road where they had tried to stop the winery wagons and failed. Or had they? Perhaps their protest had been more successful than they knew.

Fortunately, there is nothing too difficult for the Lord.

A quiet she had never before experienced washed over her. It wasn't quite serenity. But still... A smile touched her lips and her heart. She was truly starting to believe.

* * *

There had to be a way. Grant stood pitching stones into the pond and watching the ripples grow larger and larger. There had to be a way. But there wasn't. Not any he could see. He was trapped.

No money.

No steamer.

No house.

He brushed his hands together, shoved them into his pockets and stared at the water. His situation was like those ripples, an encompassing circle that only got bigger and bigger. There was no way out.

Marissa.

The knots in his stomach twisted. How was he to tell her?

Pain ripped through him. He yanked his hands from his pockets, crossed them at the nape of his neck, bowed his head and closed his eyes.

Your father used the money to pay off a few notes when profits were low. He meant to pay you back, of course, but the money was never there...

“God, I promised her! I
promised
her!”

He had to find a way.

He raised his head, tightened his hands holding the back of his neck and pressed his elbows together in front of him, trying to stop his churning thoughts. The same thoughts tumbled over and over through his mind, like those heinous ripples!