An Unlikely Love (20 page)

“Oh, yes, of course. Where's my head! He's on the porch. Go—” Mrs. Winston stopped, shook her head. “No, let me go first.”

She followed Mrs. Winston through the sitting room, her heart pounding so hard she was breathless. She paused when Mrs. Winston held up a restraining hand, stood silent and watched her pull open the door and hurry across the porch.

Grant!
Her heart leaped at the sight of him.

Mrs. Winston snatched the cup from Grant's hand, stepped back and nodded at her.

She ran forward.

Grant turned, frowned. Shock spread across his face. He lunged forward and scooped her into his arms. Her silly, frivolous hat didn't matter. Nothing mattered but that she was with him again.

His lips claimed hers, translated all of his yearning, his concern, into a kiss that left her weak-kneed and clinging for support. She wanted him to hold her forever, to never let her go. The tremor in his arms crushing her against him said he felt the same.

“Your coffee is getting cold.”

Mrs. Winston!
How could she have forgotten about Grant's mother? Her cheeks burned. Grant lifted his head and they turned as one and looked at his mother. She grinned and lifted the cup in her hand.

“I saved the coffee this time.”

Laughter burst forth. Grant's deep guffaw, Mrs. Winston's merry trill and her own bubbling ripple of happiness blended into one glorious sound. And then it stopped. Grant's hand clasped her chin, gently titled her face up. His gaze swept over her. “Did your father hurt you? Is that why you're here?”

“No. Oh, no. Father didn't strike me, Grant. I'm here because I have no home.”

“He threw you out!”

It was an outraged roar. She lifted her hand and placed her fingertips over his lips. “No, Grant. Father
sold
his business and our house. Let me explain.”

She turned in his arms to face his mother. “You were right, Mrs. Winston. With God, all things
are
possible.” Happy tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back, wiggled her arms free of Grant's embrace, opened her purse and pulled out her mother's letter. “Please read this aloud so Grant will hear, Mrs. Winston. It will explain everything.” She handed her the letter and smiled. “Father has stopped drinking wine!”

“What?”

She laughed at Grant's shocked response. “It's true, Grant. Only listen...”

The letter sounded even better this time. Or, perhaps, it was hearing it read aloud in Mrs. Winston's soft, calm voice while she was held close in Grant's arms that made it seem more believable.

“Marissa, this is
wonderful
news.” Mrs. Winston folded the letter and placed it back in its envelope.

“I'm happy for you, Marissa.” Grant's arms squeezed her tight then released her enough that she could breathe. “I know how worried you were about your mother's safety. But she sounds confident and happy in the letter. And your father seems truly repentant.”

Grant's voice changed. She could feel the tension come into him. She stepped out of his arms and looked up at him.

“The letter mentions a bank draft to provide for your stay at the hotel until your parents send for you.” He frowned, sat on the railing and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “I don't mean to pry, Marissa, but is it enough? I mean, the letter doesn't say how long it will be until you hear from your parents, and I want you to know that I—that is, we—Mother and I will be happy to provide what you need, should the draft run out.”

“We certainly will.”

She looked from Grant to his mother and back again, her heart swelling at their love and concern for her. “Thank you, both. But you needn't worry about me. Truly. Father's provision for me is abundant.”

“Still, I want you to promise that you will come to me—us—should you find you need more than has been provided.”

She looked into Grant's eyes and drank in the depth of his feelings for her. “I promise.”

“Well, all of this good news has whet my appetite.” Mrs. Winston rose and handed her back her letter. “Have you time to share our supper before you must catch your train back to Fredonia, Marissa?”

A delicious little thrill ran up her spine. This was the moment she had been waiting for. “Fredonia?” She looked at Mrs. Winston and widened her eyes a bit as if in surprise. “Why, I'm not going back to Fredonia, Mrs. Winston.” She shifted her gaze to Grant, saw the smile starting in his eyes and let her own break free. “I've made arrangements to have Mother's and Father's letter forwarded to me here, in care of the stationmaster. I'm staying at the hotel by the station here in Mayville.”

Grant's grin was everything she had hoped it would be.

Chapter Eighteen

“I
've always liked the rain.”

Grant grinned and pushed his toes against the porch floor to set the swing in motion. “I can't think of anything you don't like, Mother—” He winked at Marissa, who was sitting beside him “—other than coffee spilled on your porch.”

“Cheeky children.”

He burst into laughter. “Besides that—er, me.”

“Well, there's snakes and spiders and dandelion greens...too bitter.” His mother gave a little shudder. “And lightning...if I'm caught outside.”

He looked down at Marissa, drank in the way the lantern light played over her delicate features and made dark smudges of her long lashes. “What about you, Marissa? What don't you—”

“Someone's at the door.” Mrs. Winston glanced toward the sitting room. “Who would be out in the rain?” She started to rise.

“I'll go, Mother.” He squeezed Marissa's hand and rose from the swing.

The knock on the front door came again. He hurried to the entrance and opened the door. “Mrs. Swan!” He gaped at the woman's wet, bedraggled appearance.

“I-is Ruth home? Tobin has b-been at the w-wine.”

“Come in...” He stepped back and pulled the door wide.

Sarah Swan stepped over the threshold and stopped. “I—I'm d-dripping. If you h-have a towel...”

He spun around and pulled his mother's cape from its hook. “This will help get you warm.”

He wrapped the cape around the woman's shoulders, guided her to the kitchen and seated her in a chair. Three long strides took him to the porch door. He glanced back at Sarah Swan sitting and rocking back and forth and clutching the cape close. The coil of hair at the back of her head had slipped askew, and long wet tresses dripped water onto her shoulders. There was a lump rising at the side of her face a little below her left eye.

He yanked open the door and leaned out. “Mother...Marissa...”

They rose and hurried toward him, a question in their eyes. “It's Sarah Swan...”

He took hold of Marissa's arm as she passed by, looked down into her knowing eyes and swallowed back a surge of anger. “I'll be out here if you need me.”

“Thank you.” She touched his arm and went inside. The door latch clicked.

He jammed his hands into his pockets and stood staring out into the darkness, then turned and paced the length of the porch, anger driving his steps.

Tobin has been at the wine.

Sarah Swan was so...quiet.

Rain pattered against the cedar shingles on the porch roof, spattered against the leaves of the vines. Low murmurs came from the kitchen. The ladle clanked against the hot water reservoir on the stove. He leaned a shoulder against a post at the top of the steps and waited.

A golden light leaked out into the night, glimmered on the falling rain. He glanced up and traced the spill of light to the bedroom on his left. The one across the hall from his mother's bedroom. Sarah Swan was spending the night. The first victim of abuse to come for safety to the shelter she had helped to create.

The kitchen door creaked open. He made a mental note to oil the hinges, turned and took Marissa in his arms. He held her until she stopped trembling and stepped back. The sadness had returned to her beautiful blue eyes.

“It's time for me to go. Your mother said I'm to wear her waterproof.”

“I'll get it and meet you by the front door.”

He stepped into the small back entry, shrugged into his mackintosh and hat, then carried his mother's waterproof to Marissa and held it while she slipped her arms into the sleeves. He settled it onto her shoulders and opened the door, wanting to drive the quietness, the sadness away from her and make her smile and laugh again.

Chilly, damp air rushed at them. He tucked her arm in his and left the protective cover of the porch, hurried out to the street. Raindrops tapped against their coats and splashed and danced on the walkway. “The hem of your gown is going to be sodden.”

She looked up at him and gave a little shrug. “There's no help for it. These short trains are foolishness. The dress will probably be ruined.”

The idea of it outraged him. He halted and looked down at her. “That doesn't have to happen. I like that gown. It matches your eyes. I'll carry you.”

“All the way down the hill to the hotel!” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She broke into soft laughter and shook her head. “I think not.”

The laughter was like a healing balm. Her face lost the sad, closed look it had worn when he first met her. He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “I'm willing.”

This time her laughter was lighter, easier. His heart lifted.

“So you think my gown matches my eyes?”

She was actually flirting with him! This was the sunny, full-of-fun Marissa who had come to the house earlier.
Thank You, Lord, she's better.
“I do. I haven't had a chance to tell you, but you look beautiful tonight, Marissa. But then, you always look beautiful to me.”

She slanted a look up at him from under her long lashes. “That's good to know.”

He laughed and tightened his arm she held on to, pulled her closer. “Look at me like that when we're not under these streetlamps.”

She batted her eyelashes.

He growled and led her into the wide-sweeping turn that led to the hotel and railroad station and dock, stopped between streetlamps and pulled her into his arms and kissed her. “And one for good night.” He kissed her again. “In case you can't tell, I'm very glad you're here. I didn't know how I was going to live through that separation.”

“I felt the same.”

Two years or
more
. The image of Sarah Swan sitting on the kitchen chair returned to him. “Thankfully—because of your father's...change of heart, we don't have to be concerned about that separation now. I can't believe you will be right here at the hotel.” He started walking again, reluctant to bring up the subject of abuse again, but needing answers. He had a decision to make.

“Marissa...”

“Yes?”

“I have to ask you something about Sarah Swan.”

“What is it?”

“Why was she so...quiet?”

Her hand tensed on his arm, then relaxed again. “You learn to be that way. If you yell, or beg, or cry, it sometimes makes them more angry...meaner.”

His back stiffened.
What had she suffered at her father's hand?
He pulled her into the darkness at the side of the road and again took her in his arms. “You'll never have to worry about that again, Marissa. Not with me.” His throat was so taut he could hardly get the words out. He held her close, listened to the rain patter against their coats and wished he could take away all of her bad memories.

* * *

Grant shook the rain off his mackintosh and hung it on a peg, removed his wet shoes and walked through the kitchen and up the stairs in his socks. His bed beckoned, but he wasn't ready to sleep yet.

He went to his dressing room and washed, put on his nightshirt and walked back into his bedroom. It was too dark to see outside, but he opened the window and stood for a minute listening to the rain falling on the grape leaves, then crossed to his bed and flopped onto his back, laced his hands behind his neck and stared into the darkness seeing Sarah Swan as she had looked when he opened the door. There were two things he knew he'd never forget: her terrible quietness and the words she spoke when she looked at him—
Tobin has been at the wine.

He closed his eyes, tried to order his churning thoughts and pray.

“Lord, I've never seen anyone behave the way Sarah Swan did tonight. She was so
quiet
. So...defeated and hopeless. And no one should have to live that way.

“I saw the evidence of what wine can do tonight. I saw it in Sarah Swan's quietness and in the bruise forming on her cheek. I want no part of that, Lord. I won't grow grapes for making wine ever again. But I need Your help, Lord. Because I don't know what I will do, or when, or how I will do it. I need to work something out. I need to figure out a way to make a living. There
has
to be a way. Show me what to do, I pray. Because I won't have any part of making wine again.”

* * *

It was still raining. Grant stood on the back porch and watched the rainwater sheeting off the roof, grateful that it gave him a reason to not be working in the vineyard. He'd not shared his decision with anyone but God, but that didn't make it any less valid.

He hunched his shoulders, shoved his hands in his pockets and scowled down at the rain-spattered floor. He was going to have to tell his mother about his decision to not manage the vineyard or business anymore. At least his mother would be all right. He'd worked that much out during his sleepless hours. He would hire a man to care for the vines and manage the vineyard and pay him with the money that was to have been his share. But how he was to make a living had escaped him. He would be free of the vineyard, but there would be no money to purchase a steamer or a business.

Footsteps and silverware striking against pans announced his mother's arrival in the kitchen. He sucked in a long breath and squared his shoulders. He wouldn't tell her now. Marissa would be coming, and he wanted something to tell her first. What a mess! Here he was, trying to do the right thing, and it could cost him the woman he loved. He had no doubt of that any longer. He wanted to be with Marissa, to have her for his wife. Two years had seemed forever to wait for her. And now... “I'm waiting for Your answer, Lord.”

The squeak of the door hinges warned him his mother was coming. A handy thing. He lifted his lips in a wry smile. Maybe he wouldn't oil those hinges.

“I thought I'd find you out here, brooding over the rain and the vines.”

He pulled up a grin. “Chickens brood. Men ponder.”

His mother laughed and patted his arm. “Well,
ponder
this, Mr. Man. Breakfast will be ready in about ten minutes. The coffee will be ready in five minutes. I came out to tell you that should you like a cup to drink while you're
pondering
, you will have to come and get it. I am busy. We're having blueberry-sourdough pancakes and potatoes and eggs and sausage.”

“That was Father's favorite breakfast.”

“Yes, I know. I thought it might help.” She gave him a look and went back inside.

How did she do that?
He shook his head and headed for the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. She'd think it strange if he didn't. The blended smell of hot coffee, sausage and potatoes with onions frying greeted him when he stepped through the door. “Smells good.”

His mother looked up from the batter she was stirring at her worktable and grinned. “I think men eat with their noses.”

“Nah, too messy.” He grinned at her laughter, grabbed his cup off its hook hanging from the bottom of the dish cupboard and edged between her and the stove. He put his cup down, picked up a folded towel and reached for the coffeepot.

“This milk has turned!”

He froze, then pivoted and stared at his mother, who was holding the tin of milk beneath her nose and sniffing. “What did you say, Mother?”

“This milk has turned.” Disgust filled her voice. She banged the tin down on the table. “Wait until I see Lucas Car—”

“Pasteur!” He dropped the towel, grabbed his mother beneath her arms, lifted her into the air and spun around the kitchen, laughing. “Louis Pasteur!”

“What are you talking about, Grant? You know we get our milk from Lucas Carter. Now put me down! My potatoes are burning.” She pushed against his shoulders.

“Put them in the warming oven, Ma!” He lowered her to the floor, gave her a loud smacking kiss on the cheek and ran for the back entry. “I'll be back!” He snatched his mackintosh off its hook on the run, slapped his hat on his head and slammed out the door.

* * *

Marissa dried the bowl, put it in its place on the shelf over the flour bin and looked out the window for the fourth time. There was still no sign of him. But at least the sun had come out. Grant would have nice weather for whatever he was doing. She drew her thoughts back to her task and hurried to the sink cupboard. “Grant didn't say where he was going?”

“No.” Mrs. Winston washed the wood spoon, slipped it in and out of the rinse water and laid it on the wood drain board next to the frying pan. “I know he's been worried about some things since his father's passing, but this morning he acted crazy. I've never seen him like this, Marissa, and I'm a little concerned.”

“What do you mean by ‘crazy'?” She lifted the frying pan and swiped the towel around the inside. “What did he do?”

“He picked me up and swung me around laughing and yelling, ‘Louie Pastor' or some such name—”

“Was the name he yelled Louis Pasteur?”

“Yes, that's right.” Mrs. Winston looked at her. “Do you know Mr. Pasteur, too? Is he a friend Grant met at Chautauqua?”

She shook her head and hung the frying pan on its hook by the stove. “No, but I'm sure he would be thrilled to make Mr. Pasteur's acquaintance. He's a French scientist of some prominence.”

Mrs. Winston shook her head and slipped her hands back into the dishwater. “Well, that makes no sense to me at all.” She scrubbed at a pan, then swished it through the rinse water and set it on the slatted board to drain. “Why would Grant be hollering some French scientist's name, then running out of here like his shirttail was afire?”

“Because
Grant
suddenly got his answer. At least he thinks he did.”

Marissa spun around, met Grant's gaze and smiled. “See how we talk about you when you're not around? You're our favorite subject.” She glanced down at the basket of wine bottles he was carrying and her smile died, her face drew taut. “Are those bottles part of your answer?”