An Unlikely Love (10 page)

The small box of stationery supplies her mother had insisted she bring with her was at the bottom of her trunk. She carried them to the small desk and set Clarice's writing box on the floor. A twirl of the knob raised the wick in the oil lamp and spilled golden light over the desktop. She settled in the chair, dipped her pen in her ink and leaned forward over the flower-decorated stationery paper.

Dearest Mother,

Please forgive me. I am sorry I have been so long in writing. I am very busy. The Chautauqua Assembly is very well attended. There are thousands of people here, not the hundreds I expected. As you may suppose, my lectures have drawn a good deal of attention. The debates held after I speak are heated but, for the most part, well-mannered. You need not fret for my safety, Mother.

I have a most interesting tent mate. Her name is Clarice Gordon. She is a young reporter who is incessantly taking notes for an article she is writing for the
Sunday School Journal
, one in which I make an anonymous appearance. I shall attempt to obtain a copy for you.

She stopped writing and stared down at the letter. Should she mention Grant? Could she keep what was in her heart from overflowing onto the paper? She longed to tell her mother how wonderful he was, and how much she liked him. But— No. That information would be better shared in person. She sighed and dipped her pen.

Your worry over my journey was all for naught, Mother. It was not at all troublesome. I detrained at the Mayville Station, which is located on the lake only a few feet from the dock where the
Colonel Phillips
is moored. I confess riding on the steamer made me nervous. It was dark, and raining, and the deck was slick. A very kind young man assisted me. Mr. Winston also helped allay my nervousness when we disembarked at the campgrounds here at Fair Point. I was most appreciative.

Living in a tent is not as burdensome as you supposed, Mother. It is certainly not as comfortable as home, but it answers the need for shelter quite well. So, Mother, you need not be concerned for me. I am well. I pray this letter finds you the same. My best to Father.

Your loving daughter,

Marissa

Was her mother well? Or was she bruised and battered? Concern welled, knotted her stomach. Memories stole her joy. Was she making a mistake? Was she being foolish to even consider placing her heart at a man's mercy? Many men were kind and loving husbands and fathers. She knew that. And Grant seemed so wonderful, so kind and caring. But how could she
know
? Strong drink changed men, eroded their morals and self-control.

She folded the letter, sealed and addressed it, turned down the wick and put her things away. She would post the letter when she went to Mayville to return the scarf. Tears stung her eyes. The happiness that had filled her at that thought earlier was gone—stolen by the memory of her drunken father's hand striking her.

She stared at the folded length of soft gray wool. Mrs. Winston had seemed so...serene when she met her. There'd been no fear or shame lurking in the woman's eyes. No hesitance in her warm and welcoming smile. It was impossible to think Grant's mother had ever been struck by her husband.

You've opened my eyes to yours—to the pain overindulgence in wine or liquor can cause. I was unaware of that...
No woman should have to endure what you and your mother suffer.

Her breath caught. Her impression was right. There was no abuse or drunkenness in Grant's family or he would surely know. Grant
was
kind and caring. But if—

I don't drink wine.

Her pulse quickened. She pulled back the covers, slipped into bed and rested her head on her feather pillow. He was a vineyard owner. Surely if Grant were going to drink wine, he would already do so. The problem was hers. She blinked tears from her eyes and stared at the canvas stretched above.
Blessed Lord, please help me to learn to trust again.

* * *

Grant leaned his forearms on the porch railing and stared at the wisp of steam rising from the cup of coffee clutched between his hands. How was he going to cope? He had his father's funeral and burial to plan and attend, his mother to care for through it all, and the business end of the vineyard to manage as well as continuing to oversee the harvest.

He straightened and looked out over the vines trailing away down the slope to the lake. It would help if there were someone who could step into his place. But every time he had suggested they hire a man to help him, his father had insisted that they managed well enough by hiring temporary help during pruning and other pressing times.

That uneasiness he'd been suppressing for months rose. He should have insisted that they discuss the vineyard finances in spite of his father's ill health. He'd known that his father was worried. Maybe he could have helped...

“It will be all right, Grant.”

Some care he was giving his mother. She was reassuring him. He looked over at her sitting on the porch swing, her lovely features gilded by the light of the oil lamps hanging on either side of the kitchen door. She looked tired. And sad. The shadow of grief in her eyes ripped at his heart. “I know.”

He put aside the concerns weighing on him, sat down beside her and pushed against the porch floor with his feet. The swing swooped back and forth. “And you're going to be all right, too.” He slanted his mouth into a grin. “When I gwow up, I'm going to take bewy good cawe of you.” It worked. Her lips curved into a smile at his resort to his oft-repeated promise as a child.

“This is nice. It puts me in mind of when you were little and
I
would swing
you
.” She looked over at him, her eyes warm with love and memories. “I could heal all of your hurts with a kiss or a cookie then.”

“Or both.”

“Yes. Or both.” She looked down at the cup she held and took a breath. “I'm afraid I don't have a cookie big enough to heal this one.”

He cleared his throat, leaned toward her and pushed his cheek forward. “A kiss will make it better.” Surprisingly, it did. There was something special in his mother's touch.

“There's something your father wanted me to tell you, Grant.” She looked at him then leaned against the swing back. “He told me to tell you that he was very proud of you. And that he considered himself blessed to have you for a son.” Her voice choked. She wiped the tears from her eyes then fastened her gaze on him again. “I can't tell you the countless times, since the accident crippled him, that Andrew said to me, ‘I'm blessed to have a son willing to lay down his dream and pick up mine, Ruth. And the boy's a worker! He's got a real touch for the vines. They'll prosper under his hand, and so will we. Yes, sir. I'm blessed!' And so am I, son. You are such a comfort to me.” She gave him a wobbly smile. “Now...let's talk about something else—like that young lady you...er...brought to the house this afternoon.”

“Marissa?” He blurted out her name, caught off guard by the change of subject.

His mother's eyebrows rose. “
Marissa?
How long have you known this zealous young temperance advocate?”

“I met her on the
Colonel Phillips
on the way to Fair Point the night before the assembly began.”

“A vineyard owner and a temperance lady? That must have been quite a meeting.” She took a sip of her coffee, peered at him over the top of her cup. “It's odd that you haven't mentioned this young woman until now.”

Speculation flickered through the sadness in his mother's eyes. Her undying hope was that he would marry and give her grandchildren. Perhaps telling her about Marissa was the perfect way to comfort her now, to give her hope for the future and take her mind from her sorrow. “Well, let me remedy that right now.” He gave another push with his feet to keep the swing in motion. “It was raining that night and the deck was slick...”

Chapter Eight

T
he long, sloping uphill climb was both too long and too short. Marissa stopped in front of the Winston house, her heart pounding. Would Grant be pleased to see her? Or had his expressed desire to continue to see her changed now that he'd had time to think about their situation? He had said it would be a few days before he would be able to come back to Chautauqua. It had been five. And she had been too busy with lectures and meetings with women who wanted advice on starting temperance groups and meetings for teachers and speakers called by the Chautauqua leaders to make the trip to Mayville. And now...well, now here she was, doubts, nerves and all.

She looked down at the folded scarf in her hands, adjusted the small “thank you” sachet on the top and hoped again that Mrs. Winston liked lavender. A pat of her curls and a quick smooth of the long skirt of her dark gray day dress gave her a bit more confidence. She straightened her back and shoulders and walked up the stone path to the inviting, vine-covered porch, trepidation in every step. When they'd met, Mrs. Winston had been very gracious and kind to her in spite of the protest she'd led against their vineyard and Grant all but dumping her on their back porch. But what of Mr. Winston? He might not take as kindly a view of her attempt to stop their grapes from reaching the winery.

Our living for the coming year, and my father's peace of mind...

Her stomach knotted. Why did things have to be so complicated? She drew a breath and reached for the brass knocker on the white-painted front door. Three sharp raps and her fate was sealed. She would have to face Mr. and Mrs. Winston, Grant and whatever was to be. There was no turning back now.

The latch clicked.

She lifted her chin and smiled.

“Marissa!”

The sight of Grant, the glad surprise in his voice and eyes sent her doubts flying and her heart soaring.

He stretched out his arm and took hold of her free hand. “Come in here.”

Her breath caught at his soft, husky tone. She moved forward, then stopped, jarred by the sight of a black band on the sleeve of his shirt. She swept her gaze up to his face. “Grant, what—”

He pulled her inside and closed the door. “My father passed away the evening I took you back to Fair Point, Marissa. I learned of his death when I came home that night.” He cleared his throat. “That's why I haven't been able to come to Chautauqua to see you. We...buried him yesterday.”

“Oh, Grant, I'm so sorry.” Tears welled in her eyes. “So very sorry.”

He nodded, pulled her into his arms and laid his cheek against her curls. She rested against him, at one with him in his grief.

“I'm glad you came.” He cleared his throat again, leaned back and looked down at her. “I couldn't leave to come and explain why I couldn't come to see you. And I couldn't think of any way to get word to you. I'm sorry.”

“Oh, Grant, don't apologize. I understand. I only wish there were something I could do to ease your pain. But I've learned that only time will do that.” She blinked the moisture from her eyes and wiggled her hand holding the scarf that was trapped between them. “I came to return your mother's wrap, but I don't want to disturb her now.” She looked up and met his gaze. Warmth spread through her, settling in her heart. “Will you please give it to her along with the small thank-you gift and—”

“You're not leaving.” His arms tightened around her. “Seeing you is exactly what I need right now.”

“And I'm here.”

Mrs. Winston!
She shoved against Grant's chest and spun about. The sachet fell. She stooped and snatched it up, faced Grant's mother and held out her hands, staring down at the small lace-edged sachet pillow atop the soft gray wool scarf. She would likely be ordered from the woman's house. Exactly what she deserved for— Her cheeks burned. She took a breath and lifted her head, looked at Grant's mother pale in her black mourning clothes. “I came to return your wrap, Mrs. Winston. Thank you so much for the use of it. And may I offer my deep sympathy for your loss.”

“Thank you, Miss Bradley.” Mrs. Winston blinked, looked down and lifted the sachet. “What is this?” She lifted it to her nose. “Mmm, lavender.”

“It's a small token to show my appreciation. I hope you will find it useful.” She drew a calming breath. Perhaps she could leave gracefully after all. “Now, if you will excuse me...”

“I'm afraid not, Miss Bradley.”

She braced herself for the chastisement she deserved for being found in the woman's son's embrace.

Mrs. Winston gave her a wan smile. “I owe you a glass of lemonade.”

She stared at Mrs. Winston's smile, taken aback by the woman's graciousness. She knew the effort that smile cost her in her grief. “You're most kind, Mrs. Winston. But I don't want to intrude on your grief. I know how—” Memories flashed. Her voice broke. Grant's hands closed around her waist, and everything in her longed to lean back against him.

Mrs. Winston reached out and touched her arm. “Grant told me of your brother's recent passing, Miss Bradley. I'm sorry for your loss. Perhaps we can comfort one another. I'm sure you will understand that I find myself at...a loss. Our friends have returned to their homes for the evening, and you do owe me a visit.” Grant's mother drew a breath, gave her another smile. “Now...If
you
will excuse
me
,
I will go and get our lemonade. The weather is so pleasant I believe we'll have our visit on the back porch.” Her gaze lifted to her son. “Grant...”

“May I escort you to the back porch, Marissa?” He stepped from behind her and made a slight bow.

She looked after Mrs. Winston remembering her own mother's collapse when Lincoln died. “Your mother is amazing, Grant. There's a...a strength and a serenity about her I noticed the other day that's still there, even in her grief.”

He nodded and took hold of her elbow. “My mother is very strong. It's her faith.” He led her through the sitting room and opened the door onto the back porch. “She misses my father dreadfully. But she knows they will be together again in Heaven one day and that comforts her. And she firmly believes that when you have given your heart to the Lord and become His child, He watches over you and will work a blessing for you into every situation.” He held a chair for her at a small round table. “That's you.”

The look in his eyes stole her concentration. “What...is me?”

“Mother's blessing. And mine...” He leaned down. Her pulse leaped.

“Mr. Winston.”

She jumped and jerked back against the chair, heat flooding into her cheeks at sight of the man striding up the stone path.

“Can't a man have any privacy?” Grant growled the words under his breath then glanced out over the railing. “Coming, Joe!” A frown creased his forehead. “It looks as if I have some business to take care of in the vineyard. I'll be back as soon as possible, Marissa.” He touched her shoulder, turned and trotted down the porch steps.

She rose, stepped to the railing and watched him hurry down the walk. The man spoke and gestured down the slope. Grant nodded and both men disappeared downhill. Her stomach tightened. She turned away from the sight of the lush trellised grapevines. Thankfully, Grant would not be managing the vineyard much longer—only until he found a man to replace him. And when that situation was resolved, perhaps—

“Grant, will you get the door please?”

The muffled words pulled her from her dreaming. She rushed to the door on the other side of the table and pulled it open. “Grant was called away by a man from the vineyard. He said he would return as soon as possible. May I carry that tray for you, Mrs. Winston?”

“Thank you, dear. But the table is only a few steps. And I find it helps if I do things.”

“Yes...” Her mind flashed back to those first days after Lincoln's death when her mother had taken to her bed and refused to get up. Was it Mrs. Winston's faith that gave her strength, as Grant had said? It was anger that had motivated her. It still did. She moved to the chair she'd vacated and sat while his mother set out three small plates then poured lemonade into two of the three glasses filled with bits of ice.

“I'm sorry Grant had to leave us, Miss Bradley, but I'm afraid the grapes take precedence over everything during harvest—even a guest.” His Mother smiled and handed her one of the cool, filled glasses. “But I'm not sorry you are here to keep me company while he works. It will give us a chance to become better acquainted. I hope you don't mind, but my curiosity was aroused by the...er...unusual way we met, and, as it was obvious that you two knew each other, I asked Grant about you. He said your family lives in Fredonia?”

“Yes.”
How much had Grant told his mother?
“We lived on a farm until we moved into town five years ago, so I understand about the demands of a harvest.” She sipped her lemonade, thankful to be off the subject of grapes, but leery of what was to come. “Mmm, this is delicious.”

“I brought out sugar in case it is a bit too tart for your taste. Grant prefers his lemonade on the sour side the same as—the way his father liked it.” Mrs. Winston lowered her gaze a moment, then drew in a breath and looked back up. “Forgive me, Miss Bradley. Andrew and I sat here often, especially after his accident. He loved to look out over the vines. They become a part of your life...” Her smile trembled. “Are you enjoying your Chautauqua experience, Miss Bradley? You seem young to be giving lectures.”

She lifted a cookie from the plate Mrs. Winston held out to her and smiled her thanks. “I am younger than the other teachers and speakers I've met at Chautauqua. But there are times when experience supersedes age.” She winced at the bitterness in her voice. “Please forgive me, Mrs. Winston. I didn't mean to sound terse or—”

“You are going through a difficult time, Miss Bradley.” Mrs. Winston's hand covered hers. “I admire your loyalty to your brother.”

So Grant had told her the circumstance of Lincoln's death.
She swallowed hard, fighting the tears stinging the backs of her eyes at Mrs. Winston's comforting touch. It was what she had needed so desperately and never received from her own mother. But she couldn't accept what she didn't deserve. “Even though that loyalty brought me here to try and stop the harvest of your grapes?”

“Even though.” Mrs. Winston squeezed her hand, then released it and sat back in her chair. “But, in the interest of truth, I must admit I'm thankful your effort failed. I don't know how we would manage without the profit from the grapes. Especially...now.”

She nodded, broke off a bite-size piece of cookie. “I didn't know this was Grant's—your family's—vineyard when we came. I—I hoped it wasn't.” The admission brought warmth flowing into her cheeks again. She hastened on. “But I couldn't let it make any difference.”
Oh, no! Lord, please don't let her ask what I meant by “it.”
She put the bite of cookie in her mouth to quell her nervous urge to explain and glanced up at the dusky sky. Where was Grant? She would have to leave for the dock soon and she wanted to say goodbye.
Goodbye.
The thought wrenched at her heart.

“You care for my son. I can see it in your eyes.”

She stiffened, drew her gaze back to Mrs. Winston and looked into her calm, steady gaze. There was no censure, only acknowledgment. Her nerves steadied.

“Grant cares for you also. But, of course, you're aware of that.”

There was no sense in trying to deny it. The woman had seen her in Grant's arms. She inhaled, blew out the breath and nodded. “Yes. But...it's...difficult.”

Mrs. Winston's lips twitched. “A temperance advocate and a vineyard owner attracted to one another? I should think so.”

A vineyard
owner
? She looked out at the lush vines and her stomach churned. Did Grant now own the vineyard? Would that make things easier or harder? Or did it remove all chance—all hope of their budding relationship growing into something more?

“Fortunately, there is nothing too difficult for the Lord.”

It was a firm statement, not merely a cliché spoken to glide over an uncomfortable moment. How wonderful it would be if it were true. The plod of hoofs and the creak of wheels stopped the wish. She rose and went to the railing, looked toward the vineyard access road and watched the horses appear pulling wagons loaded with overflowing baskets of grapes. Her stomach knotted.
How much wine would all of those grapes make?
How much misery would they cause?
She turned her back and resumed her seat, took a swallow of lemonade to get rid of the bitter taste in her mouth.

“You will see, Miss Bradley.”

The woman sounded so certain. But the doubt in her heart and the knots in her stomach told her otherwise. “Please, call me Marissa.” Mrs. Winston's answering smile was so lovely it added to the sadness in her heart. How wonderful it would be to have this woman in her life if only—

“Grant told me how the two of you met aboard the
Colonel Phillips
while you were on your way to the Chautauqua Assembly, Marissa. And I believe God's blessing was on that meeting. And on those that have followed.” A small smile touched Mrs. Winston's mouth. “It will be interesting to see how the Lord works things out.”

If only He could.
She reached for her glass and swallowed the unspoken doubt along with the lemonade.

* * *

The sinking sun's last rays shimmered on the water, cast their golden hue over the
Colonel Phillips
floating at the end of the long dock. Grant skimmed his gaze over the people waiting to board and placed his hand over Marissa's holding to his arm. “Let's stop here a moment.” He led her away from the light cast by the lanterns under the wide overhang of the railroad station roof to a darker area beneath a tree. “I wish I could escort you all the way back to Fair Point, Marissa. But—”