An Unlikely Love

by Dorothy Clark

  He shoved back from the table and dropped his arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Mother, I know you’re a veteran at this. It’s only...well...never mind.” He gave her a peck on the cheek and straightened. “I’ll have the cake later, with supper, after the pickers have gone. This good weather won’t hold forever and I want the harvest finished.”

  “You sound like your father.” The smile she gave him trembled a little. “He was always worrying about the weather holding during harvest. He always asked me to pray...”

  He nodded, wishing he could take away her sorrow, thankful the work of the harvest helped hold his grief at bay. “You’d better pray, Mother! I need your help. We’re in this together.”

  He stepped to the door and pulled it open, glanced back over his shoulder. “If Marissa comes—”

  “I’ll entertain her until you come in.”

  This time his mother’s smile was steady and reached her eyes. “I’m certain you will.” He grinned, gave her a wink and closed the door, then paused a moment and listened to be sure she was all right. He didn’t want her crying alone. The soft tap of her shoes against the wood floor moved toward the sink cupboard. Her voice floated out the window.

  “Thank You, Abba, Father, for the sunshine and warmth of this beautiful day. Please make the good weather continue until the grapes are all picked and the harvest is over. And thank You, Lord, for bringing Marissa into Grant’s life. She is a true blessing to him, and to me, during this sorrowful time. I only wish Andrew had met her.”

  The words floating out of the open window had become shaky. He turned and reached for the doorknob. Dishes clinked against the wood cupboard.

  “But I’m sure Andrew knows all about her. More even than I do. Oh, Father God, a beautiful, fiery temperance advocate and my Grant? They care for each other. I know they do. I can see it in the way they look at one another.” A fork scraped against plates. “And, I confess, the situation between them seems rife with insurmountable problems I see no answer for. But I know with You all things are possible, Lord. You already know the answer. Oh, my! I can’t wait to see how You work this out!” A soft little laugh and the splashing of water accompanied the end of the prayer.

  Grant tiptoed across the porch and down the steps, careful to not let his boots thump, then hurried down the stone path, his heart a little lighter from the sound of his mother’s laughter. She believed that God had brought Marissa into his life, and was happy about it. And she believed that things would work out for them to be together. That was encouraging.

  A beautiful, fiery temperance advocate and my Grant...

  A smile tugged at his lips. His mother would be praying for them now. And that was more encouraging yet.

  * * *

  The lowering sun warmed him, glinted off the flashing blades of the pickers’ knives. Grant moved between the trellised rows, letting his presence urge the pickers to greater speed while he counted baskets. It was taking much longer to accumulate two wagonloads because of the damaged or dead vines. He frowned, stepped to one of the gray canes and examined it. There was no sign of returning life. He would dig up the severely frost-damaged catawbas and replace them with concords next spring.

  He lifted his head and swept his gaze over the trellises he could see, frowned at the sight of the many gaps. The damage was especially extensive in this part of the vineyard. It would take a lot of time and work. He’d need help. No. He wouldn’t be here.

  The thought brought him up short. He rubbed his hand over the sun-warmed flesh at the back of his neck, frowned down at the ground and considered his plan in the light of his father’s passing. He couldn’t leave his mother to live alone in their big house. And he couldn’t make her leave the house she’d called home for all of her married years—especially not so soon after her husband’s death.

  He sucked in a breath and looked at the grapevines stretching out for acres around him. He couldn’t stay—not and court Marissa with an eye to making her his bride, which he’d been thinking about more and more. The strong connection, the attraction he’d felt for her right from the first day, grew stronger every time he was with her. But he’d seen the way she reacted when she looked at the vines. He’d told her his plan. Promised her. And it was no small measure of her growing...regard...for him that she had agreed to wait, to give him time to work things out.

  But I know with You all things are possible, Lord.

  He grasped on to his mother’s favorite quote, let it settle the churning unrest. Buying that steamer had to be the first step. He’d figure out the rest when that was done. But he could do nothing without the money due him. And that meant getting this harvest in. He scowled up at the sun sinking toward the western horizon and started for the next row to count the filled baskets. Seven more and they could start loading the wagons.

  * * *

  Marissa scanned the crowded benches, lifted her gaze to those standing at the sides of the canvas canopy. “As I have said before, the use of alcoholic beverages is more prevalent now than it has ever been in our country. And I urge you to lend your voices and your support to those in your towns and cities who are protesting the sale of strong drink.”

  She waited for the stirring that plea always brought to quiet, then took a breath and followed the urging deep within that would not be quenched. “Every sale of strong drink that is stopped is a victory! But I know from my experiences that it’s impossible to stop all sales, to close all of the taverns and inns and clubs and other places where men can procure alcoholic beverages. Therefore, before I close my lecture tonight, I would like to suggest that there is something more that you can do, something that will be helpful to those who fall victim to the abuses inflicted upon them by family members who overindulge in wine or other strong drink.”

  Reflex raised her hand to the enameled pendant watch pinned to her bodice. Her face tightened. She pushed back the memories and stepped to the edge of the platform. “The first step is one we have already discussed—stop hiding the truth. I know how hard that is—and how necessary.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I joined my voice to those speaking out for temperance because my brother’s imbibing of strong drink caused his tragic, accidental and unnecessary death. I started a temperance group in my town. I traveled to other towns and led protest marches and spoke to those who wished to form temperance groups. And I am lecturing here at Chautauqua to spread the message of the danger inherent in strong drink. What I have not done is what I am about to encourage you to do.”

  The silence was so deep she could feel it. She took a breath and plunged ahead. “I became so focused on stopping the sale of alcoholic drink, I forgot about the needs of those who are suffering the abuses caused by it. I let my anger rule me...and I forgot about mercy.” She drifted her gaze over the faces of the people looking up at her. “If a woman or a child in your town suffers abuse at the hands of an imbiber, where do they go for help? Is there someone in your town who would welcome and care for them? Or do they suffer alone in silence because of their shame?”

  There was a quiet stirring.

  “It’s my experience that most people who want to start temperance groups are interested in doing so because they have either experienced the abuse caused by wine and other strong drink or known someone who has. And if you are planning on starting such a group, I strongly encourage you to do so. But I now encourage you to not only speak out and protest against strong drink, but to also provide a place where those who suffer the abuse caused by it can come when a hand is raised against them.” She reached for her mother’s watch, felt the metal dig into her grasping fingertips. “Women and children who are abused need a place where they can shelter and be safe until the imbiber sobers and the danger passes. They need a place where they know they will receive understanding instead of judgment and not be made to feel shame. I am going to work to establish such a place when I return
home. I hope you will consider doing the same.”

  She released the watch and took a breath, easier now that she had obeyed the urging and the tightness in her chest had eased. “Thank you all for coming and listening to my message. This concludes my lecture, but I will be happy to answer any questions you might have.”

  Applause broke out. The sound of a steamer whistle rose over the chatter and rustle and bustle of the people rising from the benches and skirting around support posts to make their way from beneath the canopy.

  Was that the Colonel Phillips? She gazed out at the surrounding clearing. She’d spoken too long. It was dusk. Her heart sank at the thought of missing the steamer. Her head told her it was for the best. She lifted her hems and descended the steps to talk with the group of women coming forward.

  * * *

  Grant opened the door and entered the den, stopped short at the sight of the empty Windsor chair at the long stretcher table his father had used for his desk. A floorboard creaked beneath his weight. It always had, but the sound was loud and obtrusive in the silence. He stepped onto the oval braided rug to muffle his footsteps, remembered the night his mother had recruited him to place the rug beneath the table—after his father had retired and could not object. She’d wanted to be certain her husband’s feet and legs were warm after the accident that crippled him.

  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

  She 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 waln
uts. 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.”