An Unlikely Love

by Dorothy Clark

  “You didn’t misunderstand, Grant. I don’t want you to say anything until everything is resolved. And—and I don’t s-see how it can be.” Her lips quivered. Her whole body trembled in his arms. “I try. I truly try, Grant. But every time I look at those grapevines I see my father’s hand poised to strike. I see Lincoln, and all the hurt and misery and waste—” Her lips pressed together. Her eyes closed, hiding her pain from him.

  He tightened his arms and held her.

  * * *

  The rain clattered against the porch roof, splattered on the stone walk and pattered against the wind-whipped leaves of the vines. Grant leaned against the porch post, his mind’s eye seeing the destruction such a storm would wreak on grapes waiting to be picked. Thank You, Lord, that the harvest is finished.

  He shifted his weight and scrubbed his free hand over the back of his neck. It was odd to think he’d never have to worry about another harvest. Truth be told, after all these years, the vines had almost become a part of him. He’d miss walking among the sloping trellises checking for mildew and rot, pruning vines and watching the fruit develop until their dark purple clusters gave off the rich, robust aroma that hovered like a cloud beneath the concords’ leafy canopy.

  Of course, he’d always liked riding the steamers. But he wasn’t sure how he’d like doing it all day long. It didn’t seem as if there’d be much to keep a man occupied. But there was no use speculating about it. He’d find out soon enough. He’d have the Oakwood Winery bank draft tomorrow.

  He frowned, wiped misty moisture from his face and shoved a damp lock of hair off his forehead. That was another odd thing, him taking care of the finances. Why, he didn’t even know how much money had accumulated in the bank from his share of the harvests profits they’d earned since he’d been managing the care of the vineyard. He only knew it would be sizable. His father had never been forthcoming about finances, and he’d never pressed him.

  That little curl of worry twisted in his gut. He shifted his position to lean on the other shoulder and shoved his hands in his pockets. He’d be rid of that annoyance tomorrow.

  The kitchen door creaked and the aroma of coffee wafted through the rain-washed air. He turned and smiled at his mother, not much more than a shadow in the dark. The oil lamps by the door proved of little use against the black stormy night. She walked to his side, held out a heavy stoneware cup. A pang pricked his heart. Don’t give me one of those fancy, flimsy china things. If I’m gonna have a cup of coffee, I want a real cup. “Dad’s cup?” He slipped his two middle fingers through the handle and curled his hand around the cup the way he’d learned from watching his father.

  “You’re the man of the house now. Not that you haven’t been carrying a man’s weight around here for several years. It’s a...symbolic thing.” She gave him a wobbly little smile, patted his arm then moved to stand by the railing. “This porch was your father’s favorite place. He said he did his best thinking out here.”

  He watched his mother’s hand glide back and forth on the railing, lifted his gaze to her face soft with memories. He could never ask her to leave this house. And she couldn’t live here without him. He glanced out at the vines, clenched his fingers around the cup. Lord, I need an answer.

  “Are you standing out here contemplating your good fortune in having the harvest finished before this storm hits?”

  He pulled his gaze back to his mother. “Something like that.”

  She gave a little nod. “You’re a good deal like your father, Grant.”

  There was a thickness to her voice. Time to change the tone of the conversation. “It’s learned behavior.” He grinned and took a sip of the hot brew.

  She nodded, took a breath and straightened. “This is a real downpour. I hope Marissa is warm and dry. I can’t imagine living in a tent in this weather.”

  Her name stuck in his heart like a dagger. He’d been trying to hold thoughts of her at bay, to not remember her deep pain that might keep them apart. No. He’d have the money tomorrow. He’d work it out. Somehow he’d work it all out. He pulled in a breath of coffee-scented air. “It sounds like you’ve gotten spoiled, Mother. I remember hearing tales of some pretty sparse living conditions in your early years as a bride.” He forced another grin. “At least Marissa’s tent has a roof.”

  “That big old harvest table sheltered us well enough until your father got the roof put on the house.”

  His mother giggled like a young girl.

  The teasing banter was doing them both good. He took another stab at it. “So I’ve heard. But then I’ve seen that table, and it’s pretty narrow.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  “Grant Zephaniah Winston!”

  He laughed and tapped her cheek. “Is that a blush I see, Mother?”

  She jerked back and shoved his hand away. “You behave yourself, Grant. You know full well you can’t see anything in this dark, and so do I.”

  All the same, her hand lifted and touched her cheek. He chuckled and took another swallow of coffee.

  The rain increased, fell like a gray curtain on the other side of the railing. Closed them in. It was a good night for talking. Sharing...

  “I like Marissa, Grant. I’ve tried to guard my heart around her, but she’s so...so...”

  He took a breath and spoke it out. “Lovable?”

  She gave him one of her looks. “Your description?”

  He took a last swallow and tossed the rest of the suddenly tasteless coffee out into the night. “Yes. Almost from the first meeting.”

  “I thought so.” She lifted her hands from the railing, brushed the spattering of rain from them and cupped his face. “Marissa loves you, too. Though I’m not certain she knows it.”

  His heart clenched. Not even his mother’s touch could make this all better. “There are...challenges.”

  She stepped back and looked up, studied his face. “I’ve never known you to run from a challenge.”

  “Who says I’m running?”

  A slow smile curved her lips. She gave a small, satisfied nod and touched his arm. “I’ll pray.”

  * * *

  The drumming of the rain on the tent roof was so loud she couldn’t even hear the corn husks crackle when she moved. Marissa rose, shivered at the touch of the damp, cool air and groped around the foot of her cot in the inky darkness searching for her dressing gown and slippers. Her little toe bumped against the corner of her trunk.

  “Ow!... Ow!... Ow!...” She plopped down on the cot and grabbed her toe, rocking back and forth. The back of her hand bumped her slippers. She pulled them on, fumbled around and found her dressing gown, tugged it on and lifted the domed lid of her trunk. Her fingers found what she was seeking. She carried the stationery box to the desk guided by the tiny glow of the oil lamp’s lowered wick, then twisted the knob until the light fell in a golden circle on the table.

  There was no need for quiet. She sat and arranged her stationery paper, uncorked her inkwell and dipped her pen.

  Dearest Mother,

  It is raining. A veritable deluge! The drumming of the raindrops on the tent is so loud I find sleep impossible. To my amazement there is not a single leak! The night air has taken on a decided chill, but my dressing gown and slippers keep me warm.

  In my last letter I shared the information about my tent mate, Miss Clarice Gordon. I am writing now to give you further news. Miss Gordon has been assigned the task of writing a feature article for the Sunday School Journal on a subject or lecture, of her choosing, given here at Chautauqua. Miss Gordon has chosen my most recent lecture for this honor.

  She paused and stared into the darkness, considering how to continue. It was almost certain that her mother would not be pleased with the content of her lecture. And it was positively certain that her father would not. She sighed and dipped her pen.

  The subject of
my chosen lecture is the abused victims of those who overindulge in wine or other strong drink. In it I explain how the women and children who are abused need a place where they can shelter and be safe until the imbiber sobers and the danger passes. And I urge those interested in starting temperance groups in their towns to provide such a place. I am going to work to establish such a place when I return home, Mother. I hope you will join with me in this work.

  In her article, Miss Gordon also asks the churches who receive the Journal to “rise to the call” and establish safe shelters such as I have described above. And now, Mother, for the exciting news. The Sunday School Journal has a circulation of over one hundred thousand! Oh, Mother, only think of the many women and children who will be helped if a mere portion of the churches receiving the Journal become involved.

  She put down her pen and rubbed her arms. The mere thought of all the women and children who might be helped because of this one article set her nerves a-tingle. She only hoped her mother would be one of them. That she would not let her pride stand in the way of getting needed help.

  I know you worry that I may be harmed doing temperance work, Mother. But I am quite safe. Shortly after my arrival, I led a small march on a local vineyard to protest their growing grapes. Unfortunately, we were unsuccessful in stopping the wagons that carried the grapes to the winery. But there is a wonderful sequel to that story. I met the vineyard owner’s mother, and she is a truly lovely woman. I told her of Miss Gordon’s article, and she is opening her home as a place of shelter and safety to the women and children of Mayville who are abused. She is a woman of strong faith, and I feel it is, indeed, the Lord who has guided her to do this. I can think of no other reason why the mother of a vineyard owner would provide shelter for the abused.

  I pray this letter finds you well, Mother. My best to Father.

  Your loving daughter,

  Marissa

  She stared down at the letter, remembering how surprised Sarah Swan had been when she and Mrs. Winston entered the Swans’ store together. And Sarah had been dumbfounded when Mrs. Winston explained her purpose. She shook her head, still a little dazed and disbelieving herself. But it was true. Sarah Swan was going to tell the other women, and they were all going to Mrs. Winston’s home to work out the details of establishing a shelter.

  The abused women were going to have a shelter at the very vineyard where they had protested. It was...unbelievable.

  Fortunately, there is nothing too difficult for the Lord.

  Mrs. Winston’s words. Mrs. Winston’s faith.

  She took the letter into her hands and read what she had written. It was all unbelievable. And it was only part of what had happened.

  Grant. Perhaps...

  The doubts pounced. All of the reasons why Grant’s plan would never work tumbled through her mind. Her heart wanted to believe. Her head called her a fool.

  She sealed and addressed the letter, left it on the desk to be posted when she went to Mayville and put her stationery box in the trunk.

  Rain beat against the canvas. Wind slapped against the walls, bulging them in and sucking them out again. She returned to the desk, lowered the wick in the lamp and made her way back to her cot in the dark. A quick shrug removed her dressing gown. She stepped out of her slippers and climbed beneath the covers blinded by the black night. She turned her head toward the desk and stared at the tiny spot of light in the darkness.

  Thoughts of Grant’s kiss washed over her, would not be denied. Warmth crawled into her heart, then into her cheeks at the memory of her response. What had come over her? She had slapped the only other man who had tried to kiss her. And they had been courting a few months at the time. But it was so...different. She wanted Grant to kiss her. She wanted to be in his arms. How was it possible that she felt safe in his strong embrace?

  Fortunately, there is nothing too difficult for the Lord.

  She turned onto her back, closed her eyes and shrugged off Mrs. Winston’s words. Even if they were true, why would the Lord be interested in her relationship with Grant?

  Chapter Twelve

  A shadow flowed across the faces of the buildings that lined the street. Grant paused on the side of the walkway to let a wagon pass by and glanced up at the sky. The sun was playing hide-and-seek with another dark cloud. But that was all right. He didn’t have to worry about those rain clouds anymore.

  He grinned and patted the pocket over his heart. An apt place for the Oakwood Winery’s bank draft to be, since it was the ticket to his heart’s desire. His grin broadened.

  “You look like a cat that’s cornered a mouse, Winston.”

  He turned his head in the direction of the voice. A tall, thin man with a limp was coming up the walk toward him. “I haven’t got it cornered yet, Fleming. But I’m working on it.”

  Harold Fleming chuckled and tipped his hat. “Well, keep up the fight.”

  Grant lifted his hand in farewell and strode across the street, impatience driving him. Dillon Douglas had kept him talking for an hour, telling him how good the concords were—as if he didn’t already know. He was the one who had brought them into the vineyard.

  “Good afternoon, Grant Winston.”

  Oh, no. He halted, doffed his hat to the town chatterbox. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Chesterson.”

  The plump woman stood in the middle of the walkway and looked up him. “I was so sorry to hear about your father’s passing, Grant. My sincere condolences.”

  “That’s very kind of you. Thank you.” He glanced over her shoulder hoping she would take the hint and let him pass.

  “And to your dear mother, of course.”

  He dipped his head. Perhaps if he didn’t talk—

  “How is Ruth holding up?” She tipped her head to the side, straightened her hat. “I hope her grief isn’t making her ill.”

  That’s not what her eyes said. Her eyes said she hoped there was a good story she could pass along. “Not at all.” He fixed a steady gaze on her. “Mother’s faith gives her strength.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course it does. Well, I must be going. Tilda Forrest is unwell, and I want to drop by and see if there’s anything I can do to help her.” She pulled a penny candy from her purse and popped it into her mouth. “Remember me to your dear mother.”

  He dipped his head in acknowledgment and stepped to the side of the walkway. “My greetings to Carl.”

  She sailed by and he dodged around a sleeping dog waiting outside the barbershop for its owner, trotted up the four steps to the bank’s entrance and opened the door. Fred Gardner peered at him from behind his barred window.

  “May I help you, Mr. Winston?”

  He shook his head, too focused on his quest to tease his old friend about the formality. “I need to see Mr. Taylor. Is he in?”

  “If you’ll wait here, I’ll—”

  “Fred.” He shot him a look.

  “He’s in. Go on back.”

  He strode through the archway at the back of the room into the hallway and knocked on the door on his left.

  “Come in.”

  The banker’s office was large and sober with oak-paneled walls and a high domed ceiling. A five-lamp chandelier dangled by a chain from the highest point. He removed his hat, hung it on the rack that stood beside the door and moved forward, his steps muffled by a red-patterned oriental rug.

  “Ah, Grant. I’ve been expecting you to come in to see me.” Walter Taylor rose and came around his desk, his hand outstretched in welcome. “I’m sorry about your loss, Grant. Your father was a fine, upright man. I enjoyed doing business with him.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Grant shook the banker’s hand, calloused from the whittling he enjoyed doing in the evening.

  “I assume this visit means that your grapes have all been harvested in spite of that little bit of trouble
you had. Most interesting watching Sarah Swan and the other women march through town holding their signs and singing. I sympathize with their cause, having seen some of the damage imbibing can do to a man’s good sense. But I find their methods ineffective.” Walter Taylor waved a hand toward a chair and stepped back behind his desk. “I admired your solution. I imagine it saved a lot of hurt feelings.”

  “Perhaps. But I disagree that the women were ineffective.” It might not have been the wisest thing to do, but he couldn’t ignore the urge to speak out in Marissa’s defense. “The women may have failed in their initial aim of preventing our grapes from reaching Douglas’s winery, but they have succeeded in calling attention to their plight.” He dropped down into the leather-padded chair indicated and answered the question that was put to him. “We finished picking at dusk yesterday.”

  “You were fortunate. Bringing in those concords was a smart move, Grant.” The banker gave him an approving look. “Most of the grapes in the other vineyards in the area are only beginning to ripen. I’m afraid that storm last night will cost most of those vineyard owners a pretty penny. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “Well, I’m a little at a loss as to actual numbers here. My father didn’t like to discuss finances. But I know he took out a demand note last year to carry us through until this year’s harvest.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bank draft, then leaned forward and placed it on the desk. “I’ll pay that note off, of course. And then we’ll handle the rest of the profits the usual way. My percentage and the remainder will go into the vineyard account.”

  Walter Taylor picked up the bank draft, studied it a moment then looked at him over the top of his glasses. “What about the other payment?”

  That curl of worry he’d been carrying around in his stomach until the harvest was over turned into a tight knot. “What other payment?”

  “The annual payment on the mortgage your father carried on the house and vineyard is due.”