An Unlikely Love (4 page)

Marissa.
He tucked the name into his memory and slid his gaze to its owner. Her cheeks were pink. She was obviously embarrassed by her friend's boldness. He hurried to smooth over the social misstep. “I would be honored to escort you both to dinner, if you have no objection, Miss Bradley.”

She dropped her gaze and shook her head. “I should be pleased at the sight of another familiar face at the table, Mr. Winston. The crowds of strangers are a bit overwhelming.”

“Then I am happy to serve.” He stepped to the door, motioned them into line before him.

Sunshine streamed through the cracks between the boards of the walls to stripe the dried mud on the floor. The crude benches alongside long tables covered with oilcloth were filling with people. He ushered them to one with three empty places, helped them onto the bench, then took his place and looked around.

“I'm glad it's not raining today.”

“Me, too.”

He glanced at the women across the table.

The younger of the group smiled and pointed toward the ceiling. “Last night we had to eat while holding umbrellas.”

“Which was no easy feat!”

He looked from the laughing women to the roof. There were streaks of blue sky showing between many of the boards. It didn't take much imagination to picture rain pouring through those wide cracks to drown the plates of food on the tables below. “I see what you mean. Thank you for the warning, ladies.”

Marissa slanted a look up at the ceiling and laughed. “It looks as if they would be wise to plan soup for the daily meal when there is inclement weather.”

She had a quick wit. He chuckled, admiring the sparkle of bright flecks in her blue eyes.

A man walking in the aisle behind them stopped, cleared his throat. “What's that you say, young lady?” The women across the table lifted their heads, and their eyes widened.

Marissa gasped. “Dr. Austin!” Pink flowed into her cheeks. “Please forgive me, sir. I meant no—”

“Do not apologize, young lady. I am in your debt.” The leader of the Chautauqua Assembly smiled. “Good strong soup that will not be harmed by the addition of a bit of rainwater is an excellent idea. I shall pass it on to the cooks.” He gave a polite bow and walked off.

The women stared after him.

Miss Gordon burst into laughter. “You should see your face, Marissa!”

In his opinion she looked beautiful—if a bit chagrined.

Marissa lifted her hands to cover her cheeks, glanced down at the table. “What are you doing, Clarice?”

He shifted his gaze to the box Miss Gordon had opened. It held all manner of writing supplies.

“I'm making a note to include this story in my article. It's the sort of personal touch that will make my report on this assembly lively and entertaining as well as factual. I shall title it ‘The Chautauqua Experience.'” Miss Gordon pulled out pencil and paper, dashed down words. “This is exactly what I was looking for. Something that will make my article stand out from all the other dull, factual reports and gain the editor's and publisher's attention.”

His eyebrows rose. “Publisher?”

Marissa Bradley glanced at him, something akin to apprehension in her eyes. “Clarice is a reporter for the
Sunday School Journal
.” She turned back to Miss Gordon. “You'll not mention me by name?”

“Not if you don't wish me to. Let me think...” Miss Gordon stopped writing, looked up and grinned. “Ah! I've thought of the perfect name! I'll call you ‘Miss Practical.' Do you agree, Mr. Winston?”

“With your choice of the name ‘Miss Practical' for the article? Yes, indeed. But as the perfect name for Miss Bradley...” He drew his gaze slowly over her face, his pulse leaping as pink again stole across her delicate cheekbones. “It is too early in my acquaintance with Miss Bradley for me to have an opinion as to that.”

A pudgy hand holding a plate of food inserted itself between them. He nodded his thanks as a woman placed tin plates holding boiled potatoes, green beans and two-tined steel forks in front of them, then looked back at Marissa Bradley trying to judge her reaction to his intimation that he would like their budding acquaintance to continue. She had her gaze fixed on her plate. No encouragement there.

He frowned down at his food, stabbed a bite of potato. There was something about Marissa Bradley that drew him in a way no other woman had done. Perhaps it was the mystery of the sadness in her eyes. Whatever it was, he intended to see her again—though instinct warned him she was a very proper young lady and would refuse a direct invitation.
Propriety!

He jabbed a forkful of green beans, lifted them to his mouth as he pondered the problem. How could he overcome the social conventions of propriety? Another “chance” meeting? He worried the idea around a bit, smiled and impaled another potato. With all of its activities, the assembly should offer ample opportunity. He would find a way.

* * *

Marissa rose from the bench and slipped out of the tent to avoid the crush of people when the lecture was over. What a wonderful speaker! The woman had been so concise in making her points about each moral idea she presented. Envy struck, brought forth a long sigh. If only she could be that succinct when she was speaking. Unfortunately, memories always came swarming into her head and her heart got involved. Her subject was not an academic one. It was personal. She lived it.

Grief rose in a sickening wave. Tears stung her eyes. She lifted her hems and ran down the short, narrow path to the larger main one. It was crowded with people. The hum of their voices, chatting and laughing, caused her tears to overflow. She looked around, but there was no place to go where she could be alone. Dusk was falling, and it was too dark to go into the woods, even if she dared.

She drew a long steadying breath, wiped the tears from her cheeks and joined the flow of people going downhill.

“...saw them putting up the canopy on the shore.”

“...the concert...”

“...perfect end to the day.”

Bits of conversations about the evening entertainment flowed around her. She eavesdropped shamelessly, using the distraction of learning more about the concert to get her emotions under control. Sorting the pieces of information from the general hum of conversation was challenging, like putting a jigsaw puzzle together, and it kept her from remembering. The tightness in her chest eased.

Light flared against the dark trees beside the path ahead. She looked up at the man who had lit the torch in its box of sand, watched as he closed his lantern and climbed down the ladder of short cross boards nailed to the post. A young dark-haired woman stood in the flickering light writing something on a piece of paper that rested on top of a slender wooden box.

“Clarice!”

Her tent mate turned and looked up the path.

She waved her hand and hurried forward. “I see you are taking notes for your ‘Chautauqua Experience' article.” She peered down at the paper. “What did you call the man—Mr. Lamplighter?”

“No. I named him Mr. Torch Man. It's more accurate and colorful.” Clarice slipped the paper into the box, latched it and held it against her chest. “Are you going to the concert? If so, we can walk together.”

It would be better than sitting alone in the tent remembering.
She took a breath and squared her shoulders. “Yes, I am.” She started back down the path, glanced over at Clarice. “Would you like me to carry that box for a bit? You must get tired of carrying it around.”

“No, thank you—though you are kind to offer.” Clarice looked down and patted the box. “I always keep these writing supplies with me. I never know when something will happen that will fit into an article, or even become one.”

“Such as when I embarrassed myself in front of Dr. Austin?”
And Grant Winston.
Her stomach sank at the thought, though he'd been most kind and treated her faux pas with humor.

“Exactly! That incident inspired me to go an entirely different direction with my article for the
Sunday School Journal
. And it will make it ever so much better. Thank you.”

Marissa dipped her head. “You're very welcome—as long as I remain anonymous.”

“You shall.” Clarice stepped out from the cover of the trees along the path. “Oh, my! Only look at that crowd! How am I ever to make my way to a place by the musicians?”

“How are you ever going to
find
the musicians?” She stepped close to the trees, out of the way of the people coming off the path, and stared in amazement at the land on their right. People surrounded the striped canopy that had been erected at the edge of the lake, and from the canopy to the trees at the base of the hill there was no land visible, only people. Most of them were seated on the ground. Those coming were milling about, looking for a place to sit. The blend of their voices as they chatted with one another put her in mind of a swarm of bees.

“Well, I'd best hurry. Dusk is falling and the concert will be starting soon.” Clarice looked at her. “Are you coming?”

“Not I!” She smiled and gave a fake shudder. “You shall have to brave that crowd by yourself. I will listen to the music from over there—” she gestured to the empty shore on the other side of the path “—in solitude.”

“Coward.” Clarice clutched her box tight to her chest. “I'll see you at the tent if I survive!”

* * *

Grant glanced over his shoulder again. People were still streaming by on the path outside. Something was drawing them. Perhaps this was the opportunity for the “chance” meeting with Marissa he'd been thinking about. He slipped off the bench and stepped out from under the canopy making as little disturbance as possible. He'd already lost track of the experiment, but it didn't pertain to farming anyway. There was nothing in today's session that would help him with the vineyard, and it was getting dark. He frowned at the dusky light and pulled his watch from his pocket. The steamer would be leaving soon. The “chance” meeting with Marissa would have to wait until tomorrow. With all the people crowding the path, he'd be fortunate to reach the shore in time to catch the steamer for home. Unless there was another way.

A narrow trail on his left parted the woods. Light filtering through the branches of the trees lit its downward slope. He glanced back at the crowd on the main path, entered the woods and followed the winding way. The sound of voices faded, gave way to birds twittering their night songs. He stepped cautiously through a cluster of pines where it was too dark to see clearly and entered a clearing. Tents formed rows laid out like streets to his left and right. Children laughed and played games, chased one another in and out of the trees. Adults talked over cooking fires. The smell of coffee tantalized his nose. He took a deep sniff, looked around. The path had disappeared.

A woman wearing a long apron straightened from a cooking fire, rubbed her back and looked his way. “You took the wrong path if you're going to the concert. Or else you don't care if you get there late.” She motioned to her left. “The main path is a short piece that way.”

He smiled his gratitude. “Thank you. I thought this trail might be a faster way to the shore. Obviously, I was wrong.” He gave her another smile. “Did you say there was a concert tonight?”

The woman nodded and brushed a strand of hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Down on the shore. Isn't that where you was headed? It seems like everybody is going—except those of us with young'uns to watch over. You'd best hurry if you hope to attend. It started at dusk.”

“Thank you. You've been very helpful. Perhaps I will attend.” He smiled and dipped his head. “Have a good evening.”

“And you. Mind your step, there's pines along that path and their roots will trip the unwary.”

The woman's words followed him into the darkness beneath the pines. He picked his way to the wider path and started down, joined with others coming out of narrow side paths and clearings to merge with the crowd ahead of him. He wasn't the only one late for the concert. There had to be a hundred or more people within his limited scope of vision.

He scanned the crowd for Marissa's blond curls as he walked, though he knew it for a fruitless effort. The dusky light made all of the ladies' hair seem dark. He snorted at his own foolishness and glanced up at the darkening sky. It wouldn't be long now until the
Colonel Phillips
made its last run of the day. He'd sit on the dock and listen to the music until they ran out the gangplank and he could go aboard.

Music sounded in the distance. He followed those ahead of him out of the trees onto the shore, stopped and stared. The failing light made it difficult to see, but he was almost certain... He smiled and started forward.

* * *

Marissa lifted her hems and moved closer to the lake. A warm, gentle breeze carrying soft music from the concert down the lakefront caressed her face and fluttered the curls at her forehead and temples. She stopped and brushed back the curls, gazed at the
Colonel Phillips
floating on the silvered water at the end of the dock, its lanterns golden orbs against the evening sky.

May I assist you to your destination?
Sun-streaked hair above a handsome face with a disarming smile rushed back from the oblivion to which she'd assigned them. Seeing Grant Winston at the dining hall this afternoon had brought back the memories of him on the boat. She sighed and shook her head. It was foolishness to entertain romantic thoughts about a man she would likely never see again. But he was so nice. And it was such a perfect night for dreaming...

“Miss Bradley?”

She froze. It couldn't be. She turned, stared at the object of her dreaming. “Mr. Winston!” Heat rushed across her cheeks.

“At your service.” He smiled and dipped his head.

She nodded a greeting, pressed her hand over her pounding heart and struggled to order her scattered thoughts.