An Unlikely Love (16 page)

His gaze fastened on hers. Her stomach tensed.

“That money, plus my percentage from this year, would have been enough to buy the
Jamestown
and a house and furnishings.”

Would have been.
She looked out into the darkness lest he read of the sudden fear in her eyes.

“What I
didn't
know was that the bank carried a large mortgage my father took out against the house and vineyard some years ago. And that a payment was due.”

The fear swelled. From the corner of her eye she saw him shift his weight and scrub his hand over the back of his neck.

“I feel the fool, being caught unaware. But my father didn't like to talk about his finances. Whenever I questioned him, he'd say, ‘We're doing fine' and, with his ill health and the doctor's warning not to upset him and stress his weak heart, I never pressed him further.”

There was disgust and self-condemnation in his voice. She shook her head and reached over to touch his hand. “You were doing what was best for your father, Grant. There's no blame to be found in that.”

“Thank you for that.” He turned his hand over and grasped hers, lifted it, kissed her palm, then let it go.

She curled her fingers over the warmth from his lips and braced herself, knowing there was more to come.

“After paying the note and the mortgage payment and setting aside money enough to provide living and operating expenses for this coming year—my percentage of the profits was swallowed by the debts. And then Mr. Taylor told me there was no money in the account. That my father had used my money to meet various emergencies and situations over the years. That he had meant to pay me back, but there had never been an opportunity...”

Her heart sank. She stared down at the dark water, fought back tears.
Why had she ever allowed herself to hope...
Grant's hands closed on her upper arms. She lifted her head.

“I made you a promise I can't keep, Marissa.”

“You didn't...know...” She forced out the words. He had to know that she didn't blame him.

The
Colonel Phillips
blew its whistle. The steamer lurched. The deck quivered beneath her feet.

“I've spent every minute since I left the bank trying to find an answer, to figure a way to make things work out. But the truth is I have no money, Marissa. I cannot buy the
Jamestown
.
I cannot buy a house. And I cannot hire a man to manage the vineyard.”

The steamer slipped into place beside the dock as silently as her foolish dream of a future with Grant slipped away. Light from the lamps on the posts at the end of the dock fell on Grant's face and she read the same disappointment, the same sense of loss in his eyes.

“I thought of selling the house and vineyard, but that is not possible. There is still the mortgage. Another large payment is due next year. If I sell the property now, I have to clear that debt. And that will leave Mother and me without a home, and no way for me to make a living to provide for her. I
have
to manage the vineyard for the next two years.”

Her last vestige of hope died.
It was over.
A horrible emptiness swept over her. The gangplank banged into place. “All ashore for Fair Point and Chautauqua!”

“I know it's not what I promised. But it will be in two years, three at the most. Will you continue to see me, to find out where our feelings for each other will take us during those two years, Marissa?”

God will work a blessing into every situation.

She never would have thought this horrible emptiness would be a blessing. But as long as she didn't think or feel, she could get through this moment. She drew a breath and shook her head. “No, Grant. I want to. With all my heart I want to.
But I cannot. Not as long as you have a part in making the wine that has destroyed my family and killed my brother.” A shaking took her. Her throat and chest tightened. “Every time I see those vines I see Lincoln and my mother and father. Every time I think of those wagonloads of grapes you raised, I wonder how much suffering and misery they will cause.” She stopped, swallowed and blinked. The pain was swelling. She had to hurry. “I agreed to continue to see you these past few days because I thought you would be severing your ties to the vineyard, but that hope is gone. I'm sorry, Grant. I'm so very sorry. I care for you...but I cannot be a part of that.”

His hands tightened on her arms. “I'm not giving you up, Marissa. I'll come tomorrow and—”

“No, Grant. Don't come to see me again. Chautauqua is over in two days and I'll be going home.” She gathered all of her strength and looked up at him. “Let me go, please.”
No, don't! Hold me, Grant. Don't let me go.
“The gangway is in place and it's time for me to leave.” She waited until he'd released her, choked out, “Please tell your mother I said goodbye” and walked away.

Chapter Fourteen

M
arissa slipped her hand through the cord of her purse, picked up her Bible and stepped outside. The tent flap flopped closed behind her. She waited a moment for her dry, burning eyes to adjust to the sunshine then walked from the tent to the main downhill path. The storm promised by the massing of last night's dark clouds had been blown away. But the storm that had raged in her heart all through the long night was still roiling and churning.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.

She closed her mind to the memory. If she allowed herself to think about her personal life, she would fall apart. And that wasn't acceptable. She had work to do, and a schedule to uphold for two more days.

Two more years. At the most three.

Grant's voice echoed in her thoughts. Her heart twisted into a knot of pain that would never untangle. Not in two years. Not ever. She had only two more days and then she would leave Chautauqua and—

She took as deep a breath as her constricted chest would allow and hurried to the empty bench in the small clearing she had claimed for her study place. The thin pages of her Bible fluttered in the slight breeze. She flipped through them reading the names of the books at the top, hoping the name of one might trigger her memory. Nothing came to her. Obviously, Mrs. Winston's assertion that God “establishes our thoughts” didn't pertain to her or her temperance lectures.

Pain flashed. Had Grant told his mother she had refused to see him again? What would Mrs. Winston think of her now? The stinging started again in the backs of her eyes. She blinked hard and yanked her mind to the business at hand. There had to be a pertinent verse somewhere. She slipped the twisted silk carry cord off her wrist, put her purse on the bench and withdrew a pencil and a folded piece of paper. The three short lines she'd written in the midst of her sleepless night stared up at her.

The abused are not the only ones who suffer pain from the slap of a drunkard's hand.

The imbiber may be in a torment of guilt. (Hurting the ones he loves.)

Pray for the abused and the abuser.

That odd feeling swept through her again as she read. The one she had experienced when she thought of asking people to not only start their temperance groups for the purpose of standing against the use of strong drink, but also use their groups to establish a place of help and safety and understanding for the abused of those who turned mean or violent when they overindulged.

She sat very still, afraid the feeling would disappear if she moved. It was a
quietness
,
a sort of
knowing
deep within that brought her certainty that this was the right thing to do. She would end her temperance lectures by encouraging people to consider and pray for all of those involved in the situation—those who made and provided the strong drink, those who suffered abuse because of it and the abusers.

Her father.

Her face tightened. Her cheek tingled at the memory of his hand striking her. She opened the Bible, tucked the paper inside to keep it from blowing away and rose. The peaceful feeling was gone, replaced by the anger and turmoil she'd endured for five years. She glanced at the people passing by the clearing on the main path and curtailed her desire to pace lest she draw someone's attention. She was in no condition or mood to have a casual conversation.

The short train on her plum gown dragged across the weeds and grasses, became ensnarled with a piece of dead branch. She stopped and freed her hem, then walked on, fighting the painful memories. How could she bear to go home? She dreaded the very thought of it. But how could she not return? Fear for her mother's safety foamed to the top of her churning emotions. She was not strong enough to stop her father when he became inflamed with wine and raised his hands against her mother, but she could step in and take some of the blows herself. Her mother was too frightened, too cowed to do the same when her father turned his ire on her.

Her head throbbed. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, refused to allow the memories of Grant's love, the safety she felt in his arms, to surface. It would be her undoing. She blinked away the tears stinging her red, swollen eyes and set her plan. She would approach the churches in Fredonia about starting a place of safety where her mother and others like her could flee to receive help and understanding, and then she would be free to leave. Of course, nothing would truly be changed in any of them. If only that could be. A foolish wish. She breathed out a long sigh and glanced back at the bench. She had a lecture to prepare, and feeling sorry for herself was not going to get her work done.

The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.

She froze, then glanced around, which was silly of her. She knew full well that verse was only a thought. But it had been so clear it was as if it had been spoken. “‘The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much...'” Conviction came as she spoke the verse aloud.

I will pray for you and your mother, and for your father. He must be in terrible torment.

She smoothed the front of her gown and shook dust from her hem, struggling against what she felt prompted to do. The urge grew stronger. She returned to the bench, sat and picked up her Bible, clutched it to her chest and bowed her head. “Almighty God, I'm sorry for coming to You with anger in my heart. But it's all I've felt toward my father in a very long time. He hits and pushes my mother, and he hits and pushes me. And I don't understand, because he wasn't that way. He still isn't...until he drinks wine. But he does so more and more frequently, and he gets meaner and meaner.”

She heaved a sigh at the futility of it all. “I don't even know what to pray, Lord. I do so want things to change. I want my father to be the way he was. I want him to stop drinking wine and to be a loving husband and father again. And I'm sorry if that sounds selfish, as if it's all about me. But—but—” She faltered, gripped by a sudden surge of childhood memories. “—I remember how he was. He
never
struck us. He hugged us, and—”

She opened her eyes and looked down at the watch pinned to her bodice. “And he seems remorseful. That did not occur to me until Mrs. Winston mentioned it. But Father must be suffering torment at the pain he is inflicting on the people he loves. I don't know why he doesn't stop, but—” She drew a breath then plunged ahead. “Mrs. Winston said You continually lead us. So I am asking You to lead us...to lead
me
. If there is a way I can help my father, please show me. And please lead my father. Please help him to stop drinking that hateful
wine
! I so wish my mother and my father could be happy again. I confess, I don't know how that can be. But I'm asking You to make a way. Please, Lord, make a way for them to be happy again. Amen.”

She lowered the Bible to her lap and leaned back against the bench. It took her a moment to realize that the anger that had driven her for five years was gone. There was a sorrow, a deep sorrow in its place. And love. Her love for her father had returned. A sob caught in her throat, burst out with an accompanying rush of tears. She buried her face in her hands and rocked to and fro, unable to stop her crying.

* * *

Grant examined the cane the wind had blown off the trellis, cut off the damaged end and tossed it into the cart, then wound the cane loosely along the supporting wire. The storm damage was not as extensive as he had thought at first glance. The leaves of the canopy had taken the brunt of the damage.

He grabbed the handle of the cart and tugged it behind him to the end of the row, turned and started down the cross path to check on the concords. They had fared well. Even the grape clusters he had saved for observation were still intact. The thick canopy had done a good job of protecting them.

He swept his glance along the trellises as he walked, thankful he'd brought in the concords over his father's objections. They had produced an abundant harvest. Without them, there would not have been enough money to pay the debts. And this field of two-year-old plants would bear fruit next year. They would add a considerable amount to the yield. And that meant greater profit. Maybe it would be enough to hire someone to help him. But that wasn't important now. He could handle the work, and Marissa would be gone.

Tomorrow.

The word was a dagger to his heart. If only there were an enemy he could fight! If only he could go and throw her over his shoulder and carry her back here to the house the way he had done the day of the protest. But it was her heart he needed to capture, and he'd failed. He emptied the cart on the compost pile then dragged it to its place in the barn. The sharpness of the pain of losing her would dull over time; he'd get over that. But the memory of her, the budding love for her in his heart would be there forever.

He looked around the barn, kicked the base of the straw pile into a neater edge, then brushed off his clothes and started for the house. He could only stall so long. He might as well go in and face her. His mother already knew there was something wrong. She'd known when he came dragging himself home last night. She was only giving him time. But if he didn't come in for supper, she'd come looking for him.

A wry smile tugged at his lips. Sometimes it wasn't so good having an intelligent, intuitive mother. But there were some things she didn't need to know. And the financial situation he faced was one of them. What it had cost him was another. He understood his father's keeping quiet about the mortgage now.

He squared his shoulders, trotted up the steps and strode across the porch to open the kitchen door. He pulled his lips into a smile. It wouldn't fool her, but a man had to soothe his pride. “Something smells good in here.”

“Roast beef with potatoes and carrots, slaw and jelly tarts for dessert.”

His favorite meal. She knew all right. His smile turned genuine. He draped his arm around her shoulders and dropped a kiss on top of her head. “You're kind of amazing, Ma.”

She smiled at his use of his childhood name for her and patted his arm. “Only a mother.” Her gaze fastened on his. “The storm damage under control now?”

She wasn't talking about the vines. His smile slipped a little. “Yep, amazing.”

“Well?”

She wasn't going to let him get away with that. He quit pretending. “Not all of it.” He moved to the sink to wash, splashed refreshing cool water on his face and reached for the soap. “I'm still working on it.” Spoons scraped against pans as she dished up the food.

“Which part don't you want to tell me?”

He choked, coughed when the soap got in his mouth and scooped in a handful of water to rinse it out.

“That's what'll happen if you don't tell the truth.”

His mother's laughter lightened his heart. He rinsed and toweled off, joined her at the table and said grace. The first bite of his roast beef encouraged him to take another in spite of his knotted stomach. He added a bite of carrot then reached for the gravy.

“You looked pretty rough when you came in from the vineyard last night.” His mother cut off a bite of her beef, looked up and caught him staring at her. “I've never known you to work in the fields in your suit.”

“I didn't plan to. I just walked out to the pond and then noticed the storm damage...” He busied himself ladling the gravy onto his potatoes.

“You're skating fairly close to that soap, Grant.”

He looked up.

“Did I ever tell you I went to school with Walter Taylor?”

The bite of potato and gravy scraped down his gullet and hit his stomach like a stone.

“He was sweet on me at one time. He wanted to court me when we got older, but I'd met your father by then...” She smiled, then gave her head a quick little shake and looked over at him. “Anyway, when you were busy in the vineyard this afternoon, I went to town and paid a call on Walter at his office.”

So much for protecting her. Could nothing he planned work out?
“Mother—”

She reached over and placed her hand on his arm. “Don't fret, Grant. We'll take our cold tea out on the porch after supper and talk about it. Have some slaw. It's just the thing on a warm day.” She handed him the bowl, then resumed eating.

Well, maybe nothing he planned worked out the way he figured, but he was smart enough to know when he was beaten. He scooped a spoonful of the shredded cabbage onto his plate.

* * *

The shore was teeming with people. Children ran squealing and laughing and splashing along the water's edge, obviously too excited by the promise of a fireworks display to settle in one place or pay heed to the admonitions of their calling parents.

“There's a spot there, beside that tree, Clarice.” Marissa gave her tent mate a hopeful look. She did not want to get into that writhing maelstrom. “Will that do?”

“Anywhere will do!” Clarice hugged her writing box and crowded closer. “Mercy, what a moil!”

“I quite agree.” Marissa clutched Clarice's arm and tugged her through the stream of people coming off the hill to the tree. “Oh, look. Here's a large rock you can stand on for a better advantage.”

“Perfect.” Clarice set her writing box down, hefted her skirt hems and climbed onto the rock. “Oh, my. I shall never be able to describe this scene with justice. There aren't words... Come up here, Marissa.”

She started to refuse, then set her mind to enjoy this celebration even if Grant wasn't beside her...holding her hand...taking her in his arms... Tears threatened. She blinked them away, lifted her hems with one hand and took hold of Clarice's offered hand with the other. “One...two...three!”

She lunged and Clarice tugged. It was too much momentum. “Ohhh...!” She perched atop the rock, fighting for balance. Toes...heels...toes...heels.

Clarice laughed and grabbed her arm. “Steady. The top of this stone looks a lot bigger from on the ground.”