An Unlikely Love

by Dorothy Clark

  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?”

  “No, quite the contrary. I was very moved by your plea on behalf of those who must bear abuse in silence because society has, heretofore, ignored this problem. I think, as you stated so eloquently, that it is time that was changed.”

  Clarice corked her inkwell, put it in the wood box with her other writing supplies and hooked the latch. “The editor of the Sunday School Journal asked me to do a feature piece on one of the lectures or classes here at Chautauqua. I’ve chosen yours. I’ve titled it ‘Mercy and Sacrifice.’ And I included your plea for those who are interested in starting a temperance group to also provide a place where those women and children who suffer the abuse caused by the overindulgence in wine and other alcoholic beverages can shelter and be safe until the imbiber sobers and the danger passes. As you said, ‘a place where they will receive understanding instead of judgment and not be made to feel shame.’”

  “Clarice...” She pressed her hand to her chest, shook her head in disbelief. “I—I’m stunned. I don’t know what to say.”

  Her tent mate smiled. “Perhaps this will help you think of something. I added a plea for the churches who receive the Journal to rise to the call of mercy and meet the need.” Her smile faded away. “The Sunday School Journal has a monthly circulation of over one hundred thousand. Hopefully, many of them will answer the call.”

  “Clarice!” The squeal was out before she could stop it. She clapped her hands over her mouth.

  Clarice burst into laughter. “Well, that should wake all of our neighbors.”

  “I don’t care! One hundred thousand! Oh, Clarice, thank you!” She surged from her chair, whirled across the small space and enveloped Clarice in a huge hug.

  Chapter Eleven

  “And you’ve been living in a tent this whole time?”

  Marissa couldn’t hold back her smile. Mrs. Winston looked appalled. “It’s truly not as bad as it sounds. The tent is quite spacious with tall walls, a high sloped ceiling and a wood floor. My tent mate and I each have a cot and our trunks, a chair and an oil lamp. We share a small desk, a washstand and a large clean tree root system on which we hang our coats and some clothes.”

  “A root system!” Mrs. Winston shook her head and went back to dicing carrots.

  “It works quite well.” She sliced the rutabaga she’d peeled in half, then cut each half into thick slices.

  “And you have a—what did you call her?”

  “A tent mate.” She lined up the slices for dicing, paused at the sound of boots thudding against the porch floor.

  “Oh, dear!” Mrs. Winston dropped her knife, wiped her hands on a towel and hurried to a cupboard across the room.

  The door was shoved open and Grant burst into the kitchen. “Mother, Charlie cut himself. I need a cloth to bind his hand until I can get him to the doctor.”

  “Here it is.” Mrs. Winston hurried toward him, a narrow roll of white cotton in her hand. “Do you need me to come wrap his hand?”

  “No. I’ll do it.” He backed toward the door, glanced her way. “I can’t stay, Marissa. I have to take Charlie’s place to get...” His boots pounded against the porch.

  She stared at the door, her heart pounding. “I hope the man will be all right.”

  “He will be.” Mrs. Winston resumed dicing the carrots. “Dr. Fletcher is good at sewing them up.”

  Her stomach objected to the idea. She looked down, wielded the knife in her hand with new respect. “What did Grant mean, he’ll have to take Charlie’s place? I couldn’t hear the last of what he said.”

  “Grant is determined to finish this harvest today. The overcast skies do not look promising, and if it rains they will have to stop picking and wait for the fruit and vines to dry. That can cause mildew, or the grapes can get overripe and spoil, which means no sale.” Mrs. Winston tossed the diced carrots in a bowl and started peeling potatoes. “Now Grant has lost one of the pickers. He’ll step in and pick in Charlie’s place as well as direct the harvest so he can be done before the rain comes.”

  “I see.” She tossed the diced rutabaga in the bowl and glanced out the window at the gray cloudy day, torn between wanting the rain to come and ruin the grapes and the weather to hold so Grant could finish the harvest. Nothing was clear-cut anymore. She held back the sigh that wanted expression and began dicing the peeled potatoes.

  “I wonder if you would do me a favor, Marissa.”

  She glanced over at Mrs. Winston, who had carried away the vegetable peelings in a small bucket and was now preparing wash water for the dishes. “Of course, if I’m able. What is it?”

  “I’ve been praying about what you said the other day about women and children who are treated badly by their spouse or parent who overindulge, and about Sarah Swan and the other women who came here to protest our growing grapes.”

  Mrs. Winston came toward the table, a wet, soapy rag in her hand. “Would you add those vegetables to the soup stock please, Marissa?”

  She carried the bowl to the stove wondering what was coming.

  The table was cleaned with a few vigorous swipes of the soapy rag. “And I think the Lord would be pleased if I did something to help.”

  Her breath caught. She stirred the vegetables into the stock and waited while Mrs. Winston rinsed the soap from the cloth and returned.

  “So...” The rinsed cloth swished over the table. Mrs. Winston gave it a last swipe then stepped over beside her and picked up the empty bowl. “When we get these dishes done, will you go with me to Swan’s store to talk with Sarah? The soup can sit and simmer unattended, and I don
’t want those women suffering alone anymore, Marissa. Not while I’ve got this big empty house.”

  Her jaw dropped. She stood there with the spoon in her hand, too shocked to speak.

  “You’re dripping.”

  She gathered her wits, put the spoon down and smiled. “I’d be honored to accompany you to the store, Mrs. Winston.” She couldn’t stop herself, didn’t want to. She loved Grant’s mother. She threw her arms around Mrs. Winston and hugged, squeezed words past the lump in her constricted throat. “May God bless you for your warm, caring heart.”

  The bowl clattered against the stove. Mrs. Winston’s arms closed around her and returned her hug. “He already has, Marissa. He already has.”

  * * *

  “It’s over, Marissa. The harvest is finished!” Grant whooped, grasped her by her small waist, lifted her into the air and spun in circles.

  She grabbed his shoulders to brace herself, laughing down at him. “You’d better hush and put me down or our secret spot won’t be a secret any longer.”

  “Hmm, we can’t have that.” He lowered her until her face was level with his, then, unable to resist, claimed her lips. Her arms slipped around his neck and her lips parted, trembled against his. His heart thudded, knocked against his chest wall in a wild hammering that stole his breath. Help me, Lord. I don’t want to let her go. Not now. Not ever.

  He crushed her to him, lowered his forehead to her hair, closed his eyes and breathed in the soft, feminine scent that clung to her. “I’ll be going to the bank tomorrow to straighten out the finances for the vineyard, my mother’s living and my own plans, Marissa. After that I’ll be free to—”

  “Don’t, Grant. Please don’t say any more.”

  He watched the tears in her eyes pool, tremble and slide down her cheeks, and made an effort to get control of his emotions. “I’m sorry, Marissa, I misunderstood. I thought you would welcome my—” Her fingertip touched his lips, soft, warm... He fought the desire to kiss it.