An Unlikely Love (12 page)

He glanced through the open door into the sitting room rich with an oriental rug, damask-covered settees, pillows and curtains, pictures and chalk figurines. His father had not denied his mother any comfort, but his austere nature showed in this room. There was no padded furniture, only wood chairs, the large stretcher table, a wood settle that sat at a right angle to the stone fireplace and a bookshelf along the far wall. Folding wood shutters, installed on all the windows in the house by his father, who had lived through a few fights with Indians in his early years, were the only thing the two rooms held in common. A long rifle, another reminder of those early years, rested on cast-iron pegs driven into the mortar between the stones above the wood beam mantel of the den fireplace.

A band of tightness circled his chest. His father's presence seemed so strong in the room he felt like an intruder. He hadn't come in here often. His father had never talked with him about finances. He'd always muttered, “We're doing fine” and changed the subject whenever he inquired—except last year when his father had to tell him about taking out the demand note to carry them through when the frost had ruined their grapes before harvest. He frowned and moved around the table to the chair. His gut told him he should have insisted on discussing the vineyard finances in spite of the doctor's warning to not upset his father and overstress his weak heart. It was too late now.

He lit the oil lamp, adjusted the wick, pulled a ledger from the drawer and placed it on the table. His father's bold slanted writing stared up at him from the top of the first page.
Twin Eagle Vineyard, 1874.
He flipped the page and stared at the headings written in the same bold hand. The date at the top,
January 1
, and listed in a precisely aligned column beneath:
Weather,
Purchases, Hired labor, Work done
,
all followed by cryptic notes that told him nothing about the vineyard's financial record, save money paid out.

He thumbed forward through the pages until he came to the present month of August. There were three additional entries to the column on that page:
Yield
, followed by
Concords-G,
Catawbas-F-P.
Price
,
followed by
Concords-H, Catawbas-L.
And last,
Vintner
,
followed by
D. Douglas
.

What did it mean? He scrubbed at the back of his neck and studied the letters
G
and
F-P
...they could mean “good” and “fair to poor.” That would make sense. And the
H
and
L
could mean “high” and “low.” There were no figures, of course. It would be up to him to fill those in when the harvest was over and the bank draft was in his hand. A harvest was a chancy thing, with nothing for certain, as they'd found out last year.

Where was the information about the demand note? How much had his father borrowed? He flipped backward through the pages but could find no mention of the note. He pushed back the chair, opened the drawer and searched through it. Nothing.

The ledgers from past years were on the bookshelf. He found the one for last year and turned to the month of August, stared at the pitiful numbers that recorded the frost-damaged harvest. There was no record of a demand note. He flipped to September, then on through the pages to December with the same result. He'd have to wait until he took Dillon Douglas's payment draft to the bank to find out. Thankfully, the concords had produced an abundant crop that had brought a top price. The money for the harvest should be enough...

He ignored the frisson of worry worming its way into his thoughts, placed the ledger back on the shelf, snuffed the lamp then left the room. He'd know in a few days. But that didn't help him plan—

“Well, I've finished the supper dishes and put the kitchen to rights.” His mother stopped by the settee and stared up at him. “Does that scowl on your face mean you found bad news in—there?”

He noted the way her eyes skittered away from the door to the den, shook his head and smiled. “No. It means I'm not as smart as you've always thought me to be. I couldn't make much sense of things on a first quick look. I'll try again when the harvest is over and I have some time to spend on figuring things out.”

“I hope it's not too difficult, Grant.” She lifted her hand and smoothed back her hair, brushed at the front of her black gown. “Andrew should have taken you into his confidence. Especially...lately. But he didn't like to talk about his business with anyone.”

“I know. It's all right, Mother.” He glanced at her overbright eyes, shifted his gaze to the window. “It's nice outside. And I'm not ready to go to bed yet. What do you say we go out on the porch and sit on the swing?” He slanted his lips in a crooked grin. “I can eat another piece of that chocolate cake you made, and you can ask me more questions about Marissa.”

“That sounds lovely. I'll get the cake.” His mother headed for the kitchen, tossed him a look over her shoulder and smiled. “But don't think you are fooling me, young man. I know you only want an excuse to talk about your young woman.”

His young woman. His.
He liked the sound of that.
Work it out, Lord. In spite of all the obstacles, work it out, I pray.

Chapter Ten

S
he shouldn't have come. The rapid beating of her heart told her that. Marissa glanced at the Winston house and hurried up the path, crossed the cool ivy-shaded porch and knocked on the door. Her pulse jumped. Foolish of her. Grant was most likely working in the vineyard. Still...

She smoothed the front of her plum-colored gown then reached up and checked to make certain the bow of the wide ribbon confining her curls was straight.

The door opened.

She smiled and lowered her hands, ignored the warmth crawling into her cheeks at having been caught primping. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Winston. I hope I haven't come at a bad time?”

“Oh, my dear, no. Come in. You are a gift, Marissa.” Mrs. Winston smiled and pulled the door wide, closed it again when she stepped inside. “I am finding it difficult to find things to do. How does one clean an already clean house?”

She glanced at the dark blue apron covering Mrs. Winston's black dress, lifted her head and sniffed the spice-scented air. “I think one bakes instead?” She gave another delicate sniff. “Something smells delicious.”

“I'm making hermits. They're Grant's favorite cookie. And this batch is about done. Come in the sitting room and have a seat while—” Mrs. Winston stopped, turned and looked at her. “Unless you would like to come to the kitchen and visit while I finish baking the cookies?”

How wonderfully welcome and comfortable Mrs. Winston made her feel—to
her home
. She shoved away all the thoughts connected to that one and curved her mouth into a smile. “Do I get to eat one warm from the oven?”

“If you like walnuts. I add them for Grant.” Mrs. Winston gave a little laugh and motioned her to follow. “Anyway, you needn't stand on manners. Grant simply snatches cookies off the tin. And you can be sure he takes more than one. See?” She smiled and gestured toward the bottom shelf on a long table in the center of the large kitchen. “That worn spot on the edge of the shelf is from him standing on it before he was tall enough to reach the top of the table. His hands were so small then he could only take the cookies one at a time.”

What a lovely memory.
She closed her eyes, tried to imagine Grant as a child too small to reach the tabletop.

“Andrew used to stand him on the sink cupboard so he could ‘help' him pump the water when he washed up after coming in from tending the vines. It was Grant's favorite time of day. He would climb up onto the wood box there under the window and watch for his father.”

There was a mixture of pain and happiness in Mrs. Winston's voice. She glanced over at the wood box. The edge of the hinged top was worn.

“Forgive me, Marissa. I seem to be caught up in memories since...Andrew's passing. But they're everywhere I look. It's a comfort. Please, have a seat.” Mrs. Winston gestured toward a round table and four chairs, then hurried to the stove and peeked in the oven. “Oh, my, here I am, chatting about memories, and these are done and the other tin isn't ready to go in.”

A cloud of mouthwatering aroma rose from the tin of hot cookies Mrs. Winston placed on the table. She glanced at the puffy brown orbs lumpy with raisins and nuts, and was tempted to follow Grant's example. Good manners kept her hands at her sides. She shifted her gaze to the crockery bowl sitting beside a tin partially covered with mounds of raw dough at the other end of the long worktable. “Is there something I can do to help?”

Mrs. Winston looked across the table at her, and an odd expression, almost a look of yearning, swept over her face for the space of a blink. “Well...if you would be so kind, you can lift the cookies off the tin onto the table to cool.”

She gave a loud sniff and smiled. “I shall be delighted.”

Grant's mother laughed, pulled an apron from a drawer and handed it to her, then picked up the wood spoon in the bowl and dropped mounds of dough on the unfinished tin. “I'm so glad for your company, Marissa. And Grant will be delighted. He had thought you would come last night.”

He had missed her. A little thrill of pleasure chased down her spine. “There was a meeting for teachers and lecturers I had to attend in the late afternoon, so my lecture was late beginning.” She picked up a turner, slipped it under a cookie and lifted it to the table. “And then I got carried away and spoke overlong.” She snatched a crumb off the tin and popped it in her mouth.

“Grant says your lectures are attended by hundreds of people. I confess, I would be most uncomfortable in your position.”

“As am I.” She scooped up another cookie and slid it off onto the table. “I had no idea when I was invited to speak at Chautauqua how many people there would be in attendance.” She shook her head. “I had thought perhaps a few hundred, but there are thousands!”

“Well, I admire your courage. There! That's the last of them.” Mrs. Winston slipped the tin of cookies into the oven, picked up the bowl and spoon and carried it to the sink cupboard beneath the window. “Is your temperance message well received?”

“By some. Others strenuously object to what I say, of course—which leads to lively debates.” A sudden thought hit her. “Though not last night.”

Mrs. Winston poured hot water into the dishpan, placed the teakettle back on the stove and glanced at her. “What was different about last night?”

“I'm not certain. I spoke out against strong drink as I always do. But then...” She removed the last cookie and carried the still-warm tin over to the sink cupboard. “...I felt...
compelled
...to speak about the women and children who are abused by those men who turn mean and even violent when they drink wine or other strong drink.” She picked up a towel and began drying the washed bowl Mrs. Winston placed on the wood drain board. “I explained that those women and children are victims of society as well as of their husbands or fathers.”

Mrs. Winston's hands stilled. “I don't understand. How are they victims of society, Marissa?”

She looked at the frown on Mrs. Winston's face and her heart sank. Had she ruined her welcome in the Winston home? “They suffer in silence because they have no place to go for shelter or help until their husband or father sobers and—” She stopped, sniffed. “Are the cookies done?”

“Oh, my! I got so interested in what you were saying, I forgot all about them!” Mrs. Winston dipped her soapy hands in the rinse pan, snatched up a towel and hurried to the stove.

* * *

“I'm sorry I didn't have time to spend with you tonight, Marissa.” Grant covered her hand with his, smiled down at her. “But that's soon to be over. The pickers will start on the last portion of the vineyard in the morning, and by dusk tomorrow the harvest will be over.”

“Truly? I'm happy for you, Grant. And for your mother. You've been working so hard. And she's...lonely.” She smiled, blinked and looked down.

He stopped walking, turned her to face him. “That's not the reaction I was expecting, Marissa. What's wrong?”

She took a breath, gave a little shrug. “It's...everything.” She pulled out of his grip, turned away and stared out over the water. “I—I think it's best if we say goodbye, Grant.”

The words took him like a punch to the gut. He stiffened, stared at her rigid back. “You mean, for us to go our separate ways?”

She flinched, nodded.

“Then turn around and look at me and tell me that's what you want.”

She shook her head. Her hand, pale against her dark gown, clenched. “I can't.”

His heart jolted. He sucked in air. “Why not? It should be easy enough if it's what you want.”

“But it's not!” She whipped around, her eyes anguished, wet tracks of tears glistening on her cheeks. “It's what has to be. And I'm not—not strong enough to do what I must, when you—when I'm—I have to go. Goodbye.” She spun back around toward the dock.

He caught her hand, took her into his arms. She pushed against him, then grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, buried her face against his chest and burst into tears.

“Marissa, what—”

She shook her head, pressed her face tighter against him. “I l-love your m-mother.”

His mother? What did that mean? He pulled in another breath, took a chance. “She loves you, too.”

“Ohhh...” Tears soaked through his shirt.

Definitely not the right answer.
He lowered his head and pressed his cheek against her curls, helpless in the face of her distress. “Marissa, you have to help me. I don't know what's wrong, and—”

“Y-your h-house.”

His house?
He tried to make the mental leap and failed.

“It's b-beautiful. And your mother l-loves it. It comforts h-her. But she can't live there a-l-lone.” She drew a long, shuddering breath and lifted her head. “You have to stay, Grant. And I can't—the vineyard. It's all...impossible.”

“Marissa, it's not. Mother believes God brought us together, and so do I. She will do nothing to keep us apart. And I won't do anything to hurt her. We have to give us a chance, Marissa.” He lifted his hands and cupped her face, wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. “Granted, my father's death has changed things, and I'll have to alter my plans. But I'll find a way. I haven't had time to work things out thus far, but the harvest will be over tomorrow night. And the next day I'll go to the bank to take care of all the financial needs. And then—”

The
Colonel Phillips
blew its warning whistle.

He smiled and brushed a light kiss across her lips. “And then I'll make an offer on the
Jamestown
. Trust me to work things out, Marissa. Wait a few more days.”

She sighed, squared her shoulders and nodded. “All right, Grant. I'll wait.”

* * *

Moonlight sparkled on the crest of waves rolling off the side of the
Colonel Phillips
to slap against the pilings of the dock and flow on to caress the shore. Marissa walked down the gangway and through the pool of light thrown by the lamps atop the posts at the end of the dock. Her shoes clicked on the weathered boards as she walked to the small gatehouse.

“Good evening, Miss Bradley. Go on through.”

“Thank you.” She smiled and stepped onto the shore, stopped at the sight of her tent mate standing by the nearby boating dock, then took a breath and moved forward again. “Have you been taking notes on the people out rowing or canoeing, Clarice? Are they going to be in your ‘Chautauqua Experience' article?”

“Perhaps.” Clarice hitched her writing box higher under her arm and fell into step beside her. “Actually, I have been for a canoe ride. A most enjoyable experience, though a little breath-catching before one is seated. The footing in a small canoe is chancy at best and I quite feared for my writing case until my guide got me settled and we began gliding across the water. I understand the attraction now for wooing couples. You feel quite alone with only the whisper of the water and the dip of the paddle to disturb the silence. Most romantic. I shall write it that way. Yes, and I shall make ‘Miss Practical' the heroine.” A smile curved her mouth, but her eyes were watchful. “Have you a suggestion for a hero?”

“Hmm, let me think...” Marissa lifted her hems and stepped onto the main path, grateful for the trees that shut out most of the moonlight. Clarice was far too observant for comfort and she was afraid of what her face might show. “I suppose ‘Canoe Man' would be too obvious—and the same would be true for ‘Lake Man.'”

“I had something more romantic in mind.”

“Romantic...” She thrust all thought of Grant from her mind lest she blurt out his name by accident. “I have it! ‘Chautauqua Beau.'”

Clarice paused, lifted her hand and swept it through the air above her head as if she were reading a banner. “‘Miss Practical meets her Chautauqua Beau.' I like it. It could start any young lady dreaming.”

“Then you may use the name with my compliments.” She skirted around a man lighting one of the post torches and hurried her steps to pass a group of people on the path ahead of them. Clarice would work on her notes when they got to their tent.

“And what did you do in Mayville that was interesting, ‘Miss Practical'?”

Thank you, Mrs. Winston, for my answer.
She looked Clarice straight in the eye and smiled. “I made cookies.”

* * *

The sounds from outside filtered through the tent's canvas walls, laughter, coughs, snores, low-pitched, muffled voices. The only sound inside the tent was the scratch of Clarice's pen against paper at the other end of the small desk.

Marissa turned to the beginning of the fifth chapter of the book of Isaiah and skimmed over the words. The verse was here... Ah! Yes. This was the verse she wanted to use in her new lecture on helping the victims of those who became mean and abusive when they overindulged in wine and other strong drink.

She placed her Bible so the light from the oil lamp in the center of the desk would fall on the page, pulled her lecture note paper close and dipped her pen in her inkwell.
Isaiah 5:11. “Woe unto them that rise up early in the morning, that they may follow strong drink; that continue until night, till wine inflame them!”

Inflame
. Her face tightened.
Inflamed
was the exact word to describe her father when he'd been drinking his wine and become abusive. It described the look in his eyes when he raised his hand—

“Marissa.”

She jolted out of her thoughts, looked over the top of the oil lamp at Clarice. “Yes?”

“I wanted to tell you that I attended your lecture yesterday.”

She studied Clarice's face then lifted her chin. “I remember when you told me you would be writing about me and my lectures. You warned me then to make them good for if they weren't, you wouldn't hesitate to say so. Are you warning me now that your report will be unfavorable?”