An Unlikely Love

by Dorothy Clark

  “A mortgage! On the house and vineyard?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Best we can do, I guess. It’ll help.

  So this was what his father had been worrying about. “I had no idea.” His face tightened. He rose and walked about the room, came back and sat. “Is there enough money in the draft to cover both payments?”

  “Oh, yes.” The banker nodded, tapped the draft against his palm. “And with enough left over to comfortably carry both household and vineyard through to next year’s harvest. Barring any unforeseen problems or expenses, of course.”

  Which meant there was no money to hire a man to take his place managing the vineyard. The knot in his stomach tightened. “And my percentage?”

  Walter Taylor shook his head. “There’ll be nothing left to pay your percentage, I’m afraid.”

  His year’s wages, gone. He’d been counting on that money to buy the Jamestown.

  Marissa...

  He jerked his mind from the thought of her. He had to concentrate, to think of what to do. He took another turn around the room trying to assimilate the information he’d been given and to figure out what questions he should ask. He had to know what he was facing. “How much longer does the mortgage have to run?”

  “Next year’s payment will be the last.”

  He nodded, scrubbed his hand over his neck. It wasn’t unmanageable. The newest concords he’d planted would be producing in the coming year, and that would increase next year’s yield at harvest. The vineyard could survive, though he wouldn’t be able to hire anyone to help him run it this coming year. He’d thought he’d be free. He’d promised Marissa...

  He pushed that problem aside for the moment and focused on his own finances. He’d never withdrawn any money from his share of the account. His father had told him just to come to him for any money or need... Yes. His plan might still work out with a little altering. He would have to forget about buying the steamer, but there should be more than enough to buy a house and furnishings. That would allow him to live away from the vineyard while he courted Marissa. And with his wages from the vineyard to provide a living...He would explain it was only for one year... Yes. His plan was salvageable.

  The knot loosened a little. His breath came easier. “One more question, Mr. Taylor. I would like to know the amount of my share of the account.”

  The banker looked up at him, took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m afraid that’s more bad news, Grant. There is no money in the account.” He settled his glasses back on his nose then rested his hands on his desk. “Your father used your share of the money to pay off a few notes when profits were low. He meant to pay you back, of course, but the money was never there...”

  He had nothing. It took him like the kick of an angry horse, drove the breath from his lungs. He rose and strode to the door, lifted his hat from the rack and walked out of the room.

  * * *

  Marissa closed the front door and led Judith Moore into the sitting room, the way a daughter of the house would. Her heart warmed at the thought and her imagination took flight.

  “Judith, come in.”

  Mrs. Winston’s voice brought her back to earth. She left Judith to seat herself on the settee next to Sarah Swan and moved to stand beside the door that led to the dining room and kitchen.

  “Welcome, everyone.”

  She looked at Mrs. Winston standing in front of the stone fireplace then swept her gaze over the women in the room. They looked—

  “My, my, ladies, I must say you all look a bit stiff and uncomfortable, and I can’t imagine why. You’ve all been here before.”

  Her gasp was lost among those of the other women. She darted a look at Grant’s mother, noted the glint of humor in her eyes and understood. “Not by invitation.”

  “Too true!” Mrs. Winston laughed and after a moment of shocked silence the others joined in.

  “That’s better.” Mrs. Winston stepped closer to the group. “Ladies, this feels far too formal and...well...stodgy for our purposes. Let’s hold our meeting over tea and cookies on the back porch. It’s this way.”

  She watched the women following Mrs. Winston to the door, then hurried to the kitchen for the tea tray and carried it outside.

  “Thank you, Marissa.” Mrs. Winston smiled and touched her arm. “We are discussing possible ways of reaching women and children in the area who we aren’t acquainted with, but who may need our help, with the news of our shelter. When we have worked out all of the details of course.”

  Our shelter. How gracious of Mrs. Winston to include the others in her idea. She grew more fond of the woman every day. “I’ve passed the newspaper building on my way to and from the dock.” She placed the tray in front of Mrs. Winston so she could pour the tea. “I should think news of such a shelter would be of interest to the editor. I’m certain he would write up an editorial piece about it. And he might be willing to print copies announcing the founding of the shelter that you could distribute.”

  “Posters announcing the shelter. That’s exactly what we need.” Mrs. Winston beamed approval at her.

  “We could ask the different churches to display them.”

  “Ina, that’s a wonderful idea!” Lily smiled, lifted a cookie from the tray and passed it on. “Perhaps some of the women would join us in caring for those who need help. Not everyone lives here in town.”

  “I’ll post a notice in the store.”

  “Oh, Sarah. Will Mr. Swan allow you to do that?”

  The suggestions and comments went on and on. Marissa studied the faces of the women gathered around the table. They looked so different than they had on the day of the march. They’d been so grim that day. Now there was purpose and dignity and...hope in their expressions. They were no longer alone.

  “Ladies, these are all wonderful ideas! But before we approach anyone about spreading news of our shelter, we must decide what we will say in the announcements. Why, we haven’t even got a name.” Mrs. Winston swept her gaze around the table. “What shall we call our shelter, ladies? Any suggestions?”

  The women looked at each other, nodded and in one voice said, “The Twin Eagle Vineyard Shelter for the Abused.”

  Impossible. Marissa bit back the word.

  Sarah Swan squared her shoulders. “Unless you prefer not, Ruth.”

  “Why, I would be honored, Sarah.”

  A vineyard that shelters the abused? Marissa left the women discussing the wording of the announcement and stepped to the porch railing. Sunlight and cloud shadow moved across the lush vines toward the access road where they had tried to stop the winery wagons and failed. Or had they? Perhaps their protest had been more successful than they knew.

  Fortunately, there is nothing too difficult for the Lord.

  A quiet she had never before experienced washed over her. It wasn’t quite serenity. But still... A smile touched her lips and her heart. She was truly starting to believe.

  * * *

  There had to be a way. Grant stood pitching stones into the pond and watching the ripples grow larger and larger. There had to be a way. But there wasn’t. Not any he could see. He was trapped.

  No money.

  No steamer.

  No house.

  He brushed his hands together, shoved them into his pockets and stared at the water. His situation was like those ripples, an encompassing circle that only got bigger and bigger. There was no way out.

  Marissa.

  The knots in his stomach twisted. How was he to tell her?

  Pain ripped through him. He yanked his hands from his pockets, crossed them at the nape of his neck, bowed his head and closed his eyes.

  Your father used the money to pay off a few notes when profits were low. He meant to pay you back, of course, but the money was neve
r there...

  “God, I promised her! I promised her!”

  He had to find a way.

  He raised his head, tightened his hands holding the back of his neck and pressed his elbows together in front of him, trying to stop his churning thoughts. The same thoughts tumbled over and over through his mind, like those heinous ripples!

  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...

  He lowered his hands and stared at the lush grapevines that surrounded him, let out a sound that was half moan, half growl. He couldn’t bear the sight of them. He pivoted and headed down the hill, his boot heels striking the path with jarring impact.

  No money...

  No steamer...

  No house...

  I don’t want you to say anything until everything is resolved. And I don’t see how it can be...

  He reached the bottom of the hill, turned left and ran along the path that followed the edge of the lake, away from town, away from the railroad station and the dock. He might not be able to outrun his thoughts and problems, but he could exhaust himself so they didn’t hurt as much. He lengthened his stride, pumped his elbows and dragged air into his lungs.

  He’d had it all planned, all figured out to the last detail—except one. There was no money. All those years he’d worked to improve the vineyard, to increase the yield, to grow hardier vines that would withstand the cold, to build his father’s dream...

  He ducked beneath the low-hanging limb of a maple tree and ran on.

  And his wages...his share of the profits...nonexistent. Gone. What he had for eleven years of hard work was a mortgage. A debt hanging over his head. He was ensnared. Caught in a circle of circumstance that was not of his doing but that left him no way out. No matter which direction he turned in, he was blocked. Marissa had been right. There was no way to resolve the situation.

  He ignored the agony of his straining lungs and pushed on, driven by frustration and anger. He couldn’t sell the house and vineyard. That would clear the debt, but it would leave him and his mother without a home. They would have nothing. And with no money he couldn’t buy a steamer or any other business. And because of his father’s accident, he’d had to forgo his education and work the vineyard. He had no other skill...no other way to earn a living. No. He had no choice. He was shackled. Entangled by the vines. He had to keep the house and vineyard to provide for his mother, and to make his own living.

  He broke through a band of trees into the small clearing where he had come as a child to dream his small-boy dreams and staggered to a stop, dropped to his knees and gasped for air.

  Two years.

  He could work his way free in two years. One year to pay off the mortgage and clear the house and vineyard of debt for his mother. And one year to earn enough to give him a good start in a new business. Barring any unforeseen problems or expenses, of course.

  He flopped to his back on the ground, watched the sunlight war against the darting shadows of the clouds, then draped his arm over his eyes and let the question he’d been holding off come.

  Would Marissa continue to see him while he managed the vineyard for two more years?

  Chapter Thirteen

  The sun was losing its battle with the cloud shadows. The landscape was turning dark. Marissa shoved her thoughts, as dark as the clouds, away and shifted in her chair so she could not see the grapevines. The fabric of her black gown rustled softly. She glared down at it, wishing she could rip it off and throw it away. She was so tired of all the somberness that constantly reminded her of her loss and grief. How could she forget it?

  The kitchen door opened and she pushed at the curls that dangled on her forehead and smiled.

  “They are all gone home.” Grant’s mother smiled and took a chair. “You must be feeling very pleased about your fledgling group, Marissa. Your idea has borne fruit, though we are still trying to find our way.”

  “This group was your idea, Mrs. Winston. But I thought the first meeting of the Twin Eagle Vineyard Shelter for the Abused went well.”

  “Yes. Very well. The Twin Eagle Vineyard Shelter for the Abused. My, oh, my...” Mrs. Winston shook her head. A smile curved her lips. “I certainly did not expect the women to choose that name. Our Abba, Father, has a rather droll sense of humor.”

  It was a notion foreign to her. “You think God has a sense of humor?” The idea was intriguing. She rather liked it.

  “Of course. He made man, didn’t He?”

  Mrs. Winston’s laughter was contagious. Her own bubbled up to join it, though she wasn’t sure the subject matter was appropriate. God was treated with somber reverence, like a rather cruel, all-powerful entity simply waiting for the opportunity to punish someone for disobeying His commands in her home. “And you think that God is, in some ‘mysterious’ way, responsible for the ladies selecting that particular name?”

  “I do. Though there is nothing ‘mysterious’ about it. The Bible says God will guide us continually and that He will ‘establish our thoughts.’ And besides—” Mrs. Winston’s eyes twinkled at her “—have you ever known five women to agree on anything that quickly?”

  The laughter burst free. A paroxysm of amusement that made her sides ache and her eyes water. It felt wonderful.

  “You should do that more often, Marissa. Your laughter is like music.”

  She wiped her cheeks and eyes with her fingertips, fought against a rush of sadness at the thought of returning to her home where there was no laughter...none at all since Lincoln had died.

  “What is it, dear?”

  Her throat constricted, ached at Mrs. Winston’s caring touch. She looked down at Grant’s mother’s hand on hers, at the black fabric that encased both of their arms. Both of them. Yet Mrs. Winston somehow found joy, and the love and strength to care about another’s hurt in the midst of her mourning. She got angry. Oh, she had joined the temperance movement because she wanted to prevent others from suffering the pain and shame and grief she had known, but it was anger and a strange sort of selfishness that motivated her, not love. She simply wanted the abuse, the waste of lives, to stop so she didn’t have to think about it and remember anymore. That was why she so hated those vines on the other side of that railing. Why she couldn’t bear to look at them. They made her remember.

  “Marissa...”

  Such concern in Mrs. Winston’s voice and eyes. “I’m sorry. I was remembering my brother. And that there’s been no laughter in our house for a very long time.”

  “I’m sorry, dear.” Mrs. Winston’s hand squeezed hers. “I can see your pain at having lost your brother. And I know the grief one bears at the loss of a child. But time will ease the grief, Marissa. You and your parents will all laugh again.”

  The love and serenity in Grant’s mother’s eyes caused the desire, the hunger to know it for her own to rise in an overwhelming wave. She took a breath and braced herself for the shocked reaction her revelation of the truth would bring. “I know what you say about grief is true, Mrs. Winston. But it’s not Lincoln’s death that stole the laughter from our house. It’s the fear and abuse. You see, my father is a secret imbiber. To the members of the community he is seen as a kind, upright and honorable man who is a loving husband and father, and a faithful Christian man who never misses a church service.” She hated the bitterness that spilled out in her voice but was helpless to stop it. “The truth is, when he’s at home he drinks wine to excess and turns into another person altogether. He shouts and rages and pushes and strikes my mother or me without cause. Then, when his ire is spent, he goes to their room and collapses on their bed.” Oh, the pain of speaking those words!

  The metal of her mother’s watch she’d clasped without thought dug into her fingers. Her face tightened. “Father’s alw
ays remorseful, of course—once the wine leaves him and he wakes. This is my mother’s watch—an ‘apology’ gift to her from my father after a particularly bad beating. She was too bruised to leave the house for two weeks, but she had a costly watch for others to admire and then exclaim over her husband’s generosity, when she was able to rejoin society.”

  She pressed her lips together to stop from saying more, from letting the anger ruin this day as it did so many. Her breath caught as Mrs. Winston lifted her hand and slipped her fingers between the dangling pendant of the enameled watch and the black fabric of the mourning gown that covered her hurting heart.

  “I don’t believe you and your mother are the only ones who suffer pain from those blows, Marissa. Whenever I see this watch, I will pray for you and your mother, and for your father. He must be in terrible torment.”

  It was not the response she had expected. Her father suffering torment? It was a possibility she had never considered. She rose, crossed to the railing and stared out at the trellised vines. Vines that could have produced the grapes that made the wine that had destroyed their family. “Grant once told me that you believe that God watches over His children, and that He will work a blessing for them into every situation. Is that true?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  So calm...so sure. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stop the turmoil raging within. “Even in loss and mourning?”

  “Even then.”

  There was a rustle of fabric. The whisper of the hems of a gown against the porch floorboards mingled with soft footfalls. Mrs. Winston gently clasped her shoulders and turned her around.

  “Look at us, Marissa. We stand here together, each dressed in black, each mourning the loss of a dearly loved one, yet blessed, because in the midst of our grief and sorrow we have found each other, and you have found the gift of love in my son. How can I not believe?” Mrs. Winston reached up and her soft, warm hands cupped her face in a loving touch. “The Bible says, ‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.’ Trust Him, Marissa. Trust the Lord. He’ll work it all out.”