She lowered the Bible to her lap and leaned back against the bench. It took her a moment to realize that the anger that had driven her for five years was gone. There was a sorrow, a deep sorrow in its place. And love. Her love for her father had returned. A sob caught in her throat, burst out with an accompanying rush of tears. She buried her face in her hands and rocked to and fro, unable to stop her crying.
* * *
Grant examined the cane the wind had blown off the trellis, cut off the damaged end and tossed it into the cart, then wound the cane loosely along the supporting wire. The storm damage was not as extensive as he had thought at first glance. The leaves of the canopy had taken the brunt of the damage.
He grabbed the handle of the cart and tugged it behind him to the end of the row, turned and started down the cross path to check on the concords. They had fared well. Even the grape clusters he had saved for observation were still intact. The thick canopy had done a good job of protecting them.
He swept his glance along the trellises as he walked, thankful he’d brought in the concords over his father’s objections. They had produced an abundant harvest. Without them, there would not have been enough money to pay the debts. And this field of two-year-old plants would bear fruit next year. They would add a considerable amount to the yield. And that meant greater profit. Maybe it would be enough to hire someone to help him. But that wasn’t important now. He could handle the work, and Marissa would be gone.
Tomorrow.
The word was a dagger to his heart. If only there were an enemy he could fight! If only he could go and throw her over his shoulder and carry her back here to the house the way he had done the day of the protest. But it was her heart he needed to capture, and he’d failed. He emptied the cart on the compost pile then dragged it to its place in the barn. The sharpness of the pain of losing her would dull over time; he’d get over that. But the memory of her, the budding love for her in his heart would be there forever.
He looked around the barn, kicked the base of the straw pile into a neater edge, then brushed off his clothes and started for the house. He could only stall so long. He might as well go in and face her. His mother already knew there was something wrong. She’d known when he came dragging himself home last night. She was only giving him time. But if he didn’t come in for supper, she’d come looking for him.
A wry smile tugged at his lips. Sometimes it wasn’t so good having an intelligent, intuitive mother. But there were some things she didn’t need to know. And the financial situation he faced was one of them. What it had cost him was another. He understood his father’s keeping quiet about the mortgage now.
He squared his shoulders, trotted up the steps and strode across the porch to open the kitchen door. He pulled his lips into a smile. It wouldn’t fool her, but a man had to soothe his pride. “Something smells good in here.”
“Roast beef with potatoes and carrots, slaw and jelly tarts for dessert.”
His favorite meal. She knew all right. His smile turned genuine. He draped his arm around her shoulders and dropped a kiss on top of her head. “You’re kind of amazing, Ma.”
She smiled at his use of his childhood name for her and patted his arm. “Only a mother.” Her gaze fastened on his. “The storm damage under control now?”
She wasn’t talking about the vines. His smile slipped a little. “Yep, amazing.”
“Well?”
She wasn’t going to let him get away with that. He quit pretending. “Not all of it.” He moved to the sink to wash, splashed refreshing cool water on his face and reached for the soap. “I’m still working on it.” Spoons scraped against pans as she dished up the food.
“Which part don’t you want to tell me?”
He choked, coughed when the soap got in his mouth and scooped in a handful of water to rinse it out.
“That’s what’ll happen if you don’t tell the truth.”
His mother’s laughter lightened his heart. He rinsed and toweled off, joined her at the table and said grace. The first bite of his roast beef encouraged him to take another in spite of his knotted stomach. He added a bite of carrot then reached for the gravy.
“You looked pretty rough when you came in from the vineyard last night.” His mother cut off a bite of her beef, looked up and caught him staring at her. “I’ve never known you to work in the fields in your suit.”
“I didn’t plan to. I just walked out to the pond and then noticed the storm damage...” He busied himself ladling the gravy onto his potatoes.
“You’re skating fairly close to that soap, Grant.”
He looked up.
“Did I ever tell you I went to school with Walter Taylor?”
The bite of potato and gravy scraped down his gullet and hit his stomach like a stone.
“He was sweet on me at one time. He wanted to court me when we got older, but I’d met your father by then...” She smiled, then gave her head a quick little shake and looked over at him. “Anyway, when you were busy in the vineyard this afternoon, I went to town and paid a call on Walter at his office.”
So much for protecting her. Could nothing he planned work out? “Mother—”
She reached over and placed her hand on his arm. “Don’t fret, Grant. We’ll take our cold tea out on the porch after supper and talk about it. Have some slaw. It’s just the thing on a warm day.” She handed him the bowl, then resumed eating.
Well, maybe nothing he planned worked out the way he figured, but he was smart enough to know when he was beaten. He scooped a spoonful of the shredded cabbage onto his plate.
* * *
The shore was teeming with people. Children ran squealing and laughing and splashing along the water’s edge, obviously too excited by the promise of a fireworks display to settle in one place or pay heed to the admonitions of their calling parents.
“There’s a spot there, beside that tree, Clarice.” Marissa gave her tent mate a hopeful look. She did not want to get into that writhing maelstrom. “Will that do?”
“Anywhere will do!” Clarice hugged her writing box and crowded closer. “Mercy, what a moil!”
“I quite agree.” Marissa clutched Clarice’s arm and tugged her through the stream of people coming off the hill to the tree. “Oh, look. Here’s a large rock you can stand on for a better advantage.”
“Perfect.” Clarice set her writing box down, hefted her skirt hems and climbed onto the rock. “Oh, my. I shall never be able to describe this scene with justice. There aren’t words... Come up here, Marissa.”
She started to refuse, then set her mind to enjoy this celebration even if Grant wasn’t beside her...holding her hand...taking her in his arms... Tears threatened. She blinked them away, lifted her hems with one hand and took hold of Clarice’s offered hand with the other. “One...two...three!”
She lunged and Clarice tugged. It was too much momentum. “Ohhh...!” She perched atop the rock, fighting for balance. Toes...heels...toes...heels.
Clarice laughed and grabbed her arm. “Steady. The top of this stone looks a lot bigger from on the ground.”
“It certainly does.” Her voice trembled as much as her hands. She grabbed her skirt and shook her hems into place then brushed back her fallen curls. “Oh, my.” Red and gold streaks from the setting sun shot their brilliance through the dusk settling over the dark, placid lake. A steamer, pristine white against the sweeping line of the dark tree-covered hills that formed the far shore, floated in regal splendor at the center point, and dozens of canoes and rowboats, holding gaily dressed ladies and their beaus, bobbed gently on the water between. She had a sudden, fervent wish that she and Grant were part of that beauty. Her heart swelled with a yearning ache that stole all pleasure from the moment. She sat, stretched her feet to the ground and moved to stand beside the tree, trying not to remember.
The s
treaks of red and gold were swallowed by the night sky. Along the shore, torches flickered, then flamed to life. A loud bang sounded. A flare, trailing light, streaked skyward from the steamer then burst into a bouquet of tiny flares that drifted down toward the water. A collective gasp rose from the crowd.
“It’s begun. I must record this.” Clarice slipped from the rock, opened her writing case, pulled out a candle and grinned up at her. “I’m always prepared.”
“So I see.” She forced a smile and nodded toward the paper Clarice was placing on the lid of her writing desk. “And who are to be the hero and heroine of this ‘adventure’?”
“Miss Practical and Chautauqua Beau.” Clarice pulled out her pencil and started writing. “You see, Miss Practical didn’t realize it would happen when they met—but the man has quite stolen her heart.”
Marissa stared at Clarice, fought back a sob before it escaped, then slipped around behind the tree and let the tears fall.
* * *
The day was waning, yielding its dominance to the coming night. A quiet time that lent itself to contemplation—and conversations. Grant gazed up at the red-and-gold streaked sky, shoved his hands in his pockets and scowled. Peacefulness was downright irritating when your heart ached.
“I’m so thankful there was enough profit to pay the debts and still have what is needed for the coming year’s expenses.” The soles of his mother’s shoes brushed against the porch floor as she came to stand beside him. “So very thankful you didn’t have to go into further debt to see us through, Grant. It’s a blessing.”
The word grated. It felt like a trap to him. He pressed his lips together to keep back words that would serve no good purpose and rolled his shoulders to relax the tight muscles.
“Although I don’t imagine it feels like much of a blessing to you. Not when there is another mortgage payment due next year.”
He yanked his hands from his pockets and turned to look at her. “Mr. Taylor had no business telling you about that. He shouldn’t have discussed the vineyard finances with you at all—I don’t care if he is an old friend. I’m managing things now. The debt is mine, and I’ll take care of it. He had no right to put that worry on you.” He stopped, looked down at her hand on his arm.
“I’m sorry your money is gone, Grant. I know you had plans...”
Marissa. Pain shot through him. He straightened and forced his lips into a grin. He couldn’t let his mother know what losing that money had cost him. “Who, me? I’m too old to be going off to college to learn to be a scientist.”
She looked at him.
He did his best to maintain that phony grin and meet her steady gaze.
“You forgot about the soap, Grant. Marissa didn’t come today.”
“No.” He looked back out over the vines, fought to keep his voice even. “She won’t be coming again.” He clenched his jaw, fought the ache in his heart.
Silence settled. He looked ahead into the dark space of empty years.
His mother drew a breath, went on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Don’t lose faith, Grant. God will turn this into a blessing for both of you. You wait and see. I don’t know how, but God will turn this into a blessing.”
A blessing! Marissa was gone out of his life. He couldn’t answer. The best he could do was nod.
Chapter Fifteen
Marissa willed her feet to go faster up the hill. It was amazing...unbelievable. But the anger was truly gone. She’d waited for it to return, certain that it was only the emotion of the prayer that had caused the deep sorrow to replace the anger and bring her love for her father back. But she still felt exactly the same when she rose this morning after her restless night. God had somehow changed her heart. It was the only answer. Five years! Five years of anger were simply gone. And if the Lord could do that...
It will be interesting to see how the Lord works things out.
The hollow ache inside grew. She’d made a mistake. A horrible, terrible mistake! The thought of being around those vines for two more years was still repugnant to her, but she should not have gone against her heart and cut Grant out of her life. She should have at least tried. She should have waited for the Lord to work His will as Mrs. Winston had said. Was there still a chance? She blinked her red, swollen, dry and burning eyes, fought for breath as she crested the hill. Forgive me for my unbelief, Lord. Please forgive me, and have Your way. Oh, God, please let there be a promise of tomorrow.
The morning sun bathed the front of the house. She rushed up the sidewalk to the vine-covered porch and knocked, made herself wait. Would Mrs. Winston turn her away? Would Grant tell her to go?
The door opened and Mrs. Winston stood there in her black gown. Please, Lord—
“It’s about time! He’s almost through with his coffee.” Mrs. Winston stepped back, swept her hand through the air in a command. “He’s on the back porch.” Her smile conveyed her blessing.
“Thank you.” She breathed the words, lifted her hems and ran through the sitting room, pulled open the door. “Grant...”
He spun around, threw the cup in his hand and lunged forward.
She made it halfway across the porch before she was crushed breathless against him, her arms around his neck, her feet dangling in the air. “Grant, I—”
“Marissa...”
She met his kiss, returned it with all of the yearning that swelled her heart.
“I thought I’d lost you...”
She opened her eyes and looked at him, at the vines that fell away down the hill behind him and shook her head. “Not if you’re willing to wait for two years.”
“Well, I must say, you two sound very sensible. I find that a little surprising.” Mrs. Winston touched the stoneware cup on the table, glanced at the splatter of dried coffee on the porch floor and laughed. “You seemed a bit impatient a few minutes ago.”
Her cheeks flamed. “I’ll mop—” She tried to move.
Grant laughed and tightened his arms around her waist. “I’ll do it later, Marissa. After you’ve gone back to Fair Point. Until then, you’re staying right where you are.”
“We’ll leave the coffee where it lies, for now.” Mrs. Winston’s eyes twinkled. “I rather like looking at that evidence of my son’s happiness. And of God’s blessing.”
God’s blessing? Yes. She rested back against Grant, who was leaning against the railing behind them, and sighed. Two years seemed a very long time. Two years. Would their feelings for each other survive the separation? She forced a smile to hide her aching heart.
Mrs. Winston picked up the cup. “Now, I’m going inside to wash the breakfast dishes, including this cup.” She reached for the kitchen door, stopped and turned back to face them. “Marissa, I know this is your last day at Chautauqua, and I will be coming with Grant to hear your lecture. I know Andrew would want me to, and I don’t care a fig about propriety—I care about you and my son. And so does our Abba, Father.”
Mrs. Winston clasped the cup against her chest and closed her eyes. “Father God, I have learned of the financial situation that ties Grant to the vineyard. And I know of the pain and grief that form a barrier to Marissa being with him while he tends the vines.”
Grant’s arms pulled her closer. Marissa swallowed hard and closed her eyes.
“It seems a snare with no escape. But I know You, Father God. And I know, also, that there is a vast difference between a snare and an embrace. Both encircle you—but one to do ill, and the other to love and protect. So I ask that You, Father God, break the snare that keeps Marissa and Grant apart, and instead enfold them in the blessing of Your loving embrace. And, Father God, please, do something with those grapes!”
If only.
The kitchen door opened and closed. Marissa blinked the tears from her eyes, turned in Grant’s arms and rested her head against his shoulder.
The corn husks crackled. That was a sound she would not miss. Marissa smiled and tugged the bottom sheet free of the cot’s mattress, folded it and placed it on top of the other linens in her trunk. Her folded gowns and her waterproof filled the Saratoga to overflowing. She glanced around the tent, spotted her slippers, tucked them down the side of the trunk, stuffed her pillow in the domed lid and snapped it closed.
The tent flap flopped aside. Clarice stepped in and put her writing box down on the desk. “You’re all packed and ready to go?”
“Yes.” Her smile was a little shaky. She would miss Clarice and her forthright ways. “I’ll be taking the steamer to Mayville to catch the train for home after I finish my short lecture summary.” Home. Her stomach sank at the thought.
“So the ‘Chautauqua Experience’ is over for ‘Miss Practical.’”
Yes. But she wouldn’t end it on a melancholy note. She gave Clarice a wry smile. “Well, a bit of it will live on in print.” The laughter chased any sadness at parting away.
“True enough. Perhaps more than you know.”
“Oh, dear.” She peered at Clarice’s mischievous grin. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, a walk at dusk along the lake shore with ‘Mr. Boat Man.’”
“Clarice!”
Her tent mate gave a delighted laugh. “Your face is so transparent, Marissa! Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize Mr. Winston?”
An Unlikely Love Page 17
