“I’ve never been more proud of you, son.” Her calm voice said more than her words. She smiled and rose from the swing. “And now I’m going to go check on those grapes.”
* * *
“This is the last of it. When these bottles are filled and in the hot water, we’re finished—except for cleaning the kitchen.” Grant tilted the liquid in the large pan into the pitcher his mother held, then placed the empty pan on the sink cupboard and walked to the other end of the table. Steam from the waiting pan on the stove made a cloud behind him as he took up his position ready to seal the bottles that his mother and Marissa filled.
“Hold the bottle steady, Marissa. It wants to tip over.”
“I’ve got it. Don’t pour too fast. It’s almost full.”
“All right. Get ready. Here it comes.”
He looked down the table and watched his mother tip the pitcher, smiled as the deep purple liquid slid off the lip into the funnel Marissa held, then streamed out the bottom into the wine bottle.
“It’s almost full... Stop!”
Marissa shifted the funnel to the next bottle in line, then handed him the filled one and smiled when their fingers touched.
He stoppered the bottle, seated the cork firmly with a quick hit of his palm, then took the bottle to the stove and sealed it with hot wax. Twenty-four finished bottles sat on the eating table. This last batch would give him twelve more. Please, Lord, let this work. And let this “unfermented wine” taste delicious.
* * *
“Well, that was a deal of cooperation with each of us doing our specific tasks. We work well together.” Mrs. Winston pushed at her hair and smiled. “We got into a rhythm that served us well.”
“We did indeed.” Marissa’s smile made his pulse jump. “It’s fortunate your mother has that long table, Grant. It would have been difficult to do the work without it.”
“I’ll say.” Mrs. Winston shook her head and looked at him, concern and a question in her eyes. “That was only a few of the harvest leavings. Imagine bottling wagonloads of grapes. You’re going to need a barn, Grant. And workers.”
“If the experiment works.” Grant stared at the bottles of his unfermented wine, acutely aware of his lack of experience. “So, how many days do you think it should set before we try it?”
“It’s your experiment, Grant.”
“True.” He directed a wry smile toward his mother. “But I’m relying on your cooking skills to provide the answers to any questions that crop up.”
“I see.” She laughed and handed him one of the bottles. “If it’s the taste you want to know about, you could open one at any time. If you want to know for certain that your experiment killed all of the yeast, well...that will take some time.”
“Putting it off won’t change anything, will it, Grant?”
“Only my peace of mind, Marissa.” He gave her a wry smile. “And right now I don’t have much of that.” He sucked in a long breath and ran his thumbnail in a circle between the cork and bottle to break the wax seal. The cork came free with a loud pop. “Well...” He poured a little of the liquid in the bottle into a glass and held it out to his mother, poured more and offered it to Marissa. She shook her head.
“I—I can’t, Grant. I’m sorry. I know you say it is without alcohol, but it’s still wine.” A shudder shook her. “Even the bottle...”
“I should have thought of that.” He frowned and put down the glass. “I’m sorry, Marissa. A winery was the only place I could get the bottles and other supplies quickly. But I’ll keep that in mind if—when—we begin bottling.” He glanced at his mother.
“He’s brought you this far, Grant. Have faith.”
He nodded and picked up his glass. Marissa moved to his side, out of his way. Please, Lord... He took a swallow, grinned and took another. “Mother...”
She looked up from her glass and smiled. “It’s delicious, Grant. It tastes like grapes right off the vine.” Pride of him shone in her eyes, but that shadow of concern was still lurking in their depts. “What is your next step?”
“Well, since this has all come about this morning, I’ll have to give that some thought.” He emptied his glass, looked down at Marissa and smiled. “Right now I’m going to walk Marissa home.” He took her hand and led her out into the hall.
“Was your...drink...really delicious, Grant?”
He closed the front door, offered Marissa his arm and nodded. “It was so good it surprised me.”
“Then I think what you might do is take your ‘unfermented wine’ some place where there are a lot of people and give them each a taste to see if they like it. Or, perhaps, you might offer it at church for Communion. I’m certain there are a lot of people there who would give you an honest opinion as to whether they like it or not.”
He stopped, stared down at her. “Those are very good ideas, Marissa.”
She laughed and tugged his arm to start walking again. “You needn’t look shocked. I simply took your idea of having the three of us taste it and made it larger.”
“Considerably so.” He squeezed her hand. “Have you any other ideas?”
“Not for the present, but for after.”
His heart lurched. Did she mean... “After?”
“Yes, you know...for after you are making your ‘unfermented wine.’” She cast a sidelong look up at him.
He swallowed his disappointment. “And what are those ideas?”
“First, I believe you should use bottles that are very different from wine bottles so that people don’t get them confused. And so people like me don’t connect...unpleasant...memories with them and thus refuse to buy your wine.” She glanced up at him again. “And second, I believe you should have a statement on your label that states that your ‘unfermented wine’ may be enjoyed by children. And a second statement on your label telling everyone that there is no alcohol in your drink and therefore no danger in drinking it.”
“And, again, those are very good ideas.” He led her away from the hotel, guided her to the other side of the road by the railroad station and stopped at their “secret place” under the tree. He leaned against the tree trunk, took hold of her hand and pulled her around in front of him. “I never knew you had such a talent for business, Marissa. I’m impressed.” He caught her hands in his and lifted them to his mouth, kissed their palms and the place where her pulse was skipping and fluttering on the inside of her wrists. “Have you any more ideas?”
“A few.” She yielded when he tugged her hands and pulled her close to him. “But it might be better to save them for another time.”
“Then I’ll ask you a few questions.”
She stared up at him and nodded. “All right...”
“First, do you think you could live looking at the grapevines every day now that you know the grapes would not be used to make wine?”
Her hands trembled. The pulse under his fingers at her wrists raced. “I believe I could manage that.”
He gave a little tug. She fell against him. His heart slammed against his chest. He slid his arms around her and kissed her temple, the warm, soft spot in front of her ear. “And do you think you would find it acceptable to live in a house with your husband’s mother?” He slid his lips along her cheek, kissed the corner of her mouth.
“I think that...would be...lovely.” Her words were soft, breathless. Her face turned, her lips seeking his.
His heart thudded. His pulse surged. “Then when I get this—” He couldn’t resist; he captured her seeking lips, took them prisoner. “—‘unfermented wine’ business running—” Her lips trembled against his, parted. He whispered against their soft fullness, “—Will you marry me?”
She pulled away, leaned back and gave him a smile that took his breath. “I would not marry you while you had a part in making wine, Grant, but that’s over
now. Yes, with all my heart yes. I’ll marry you.”
He crushed her to him, pressed his cheek against her curls. The joy at the thought of having her for his own, and the need to do what was right, all but maddened him. He pulled in a long breath and prayed for strength.
“I want that more than anything, Marissa. But I can’t marry you until I know I can provide for you. And that will be at least a year.” He cleared the huskiness from his voice and lifted his head to look down at her. “I have to borrow the money to build a barn and buy equipment so I’ll be ready to make the ‘unfermented wine’ next fall. But once the ‘unfermented wine’ is sold and I pay off the debt, I’ll have enough to provide a good living. Until then, we have to wait.” The words were a knife to his heart.
“Let me go, Grant.” She slipped the purse cord from her wrist, pulled out a piece of paper, then looked up at him and smiled. “This is a bank draft, Grant. The one I told you my father gave me to pay for my living expenses until they settle in a new place and send for me. What I didn’t tell you is that my father is a very wealthy man and this draft is for a very large amount. Now, since it’s for my living expenses—” that saucy look he loved stole into her eyes and her smile “—and if we marry I’d be living in your home, this money would rightly belong to you. And I’m quite certain there’s enough here to build a barn—”
His kiss smothered the rest of her words. She answered it with all of her love, then leaned against him weak-kneed and trembling when he lifted his head.
“It will be a loan, Marissa, to be paid back when the ‘unfermented wine’ is sold.”
She burrowed her face into the hollow of his neck and smiled at the husky fierceness in his voice. “If you insist.”
“I do.”
“Very well. And as we are making conditions—”
“Yes?”
She lifted her head and kissed his neck just below his jaw. “You must agree to change the name of your drink to ‘grape juice’ and never call it ‘unfermented wine’ again.” She ended her request with a kiss to the small hollow beneath his lip.
His breath hissed from him. His arms tightened around her and his lips captured hers, sealing the bargain.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from FROM BOSS TO BRIDEGROOM by Karen Kirst.
Dear Reader,
I love writing historical romance novels. I learn so much when I do the research needed to make the story background as accurate as possible. And sometimes during that research I find the “germ” of a wonderful story...or two.
This book began with the setting. I am familiar with the world-famous Chautauqua Institute located on beautiful Chautauqua Lake in western New York. It still holds educational classes and lectures and entertainments in the arts every summer. I’ve been there many times. The beautiful old buildings are still there. And you can still ride a paddle wheel steamer around the lake.
Vineyards and wineries abound in the area, all part of the Concord Grape Belt, the largest and oldest concord-grape-growing region in the world. And, a short distance away, in Fredonia, New York (Marissa’s hometown in the story), stands the church where the “Woman’s Crusade”—soon to become the “Women’s Christian Temperance Union”—held its first meeting in the winter of 1873-1874. The next summer at the first Chautauqua Sunday School Assembly, those women met with many others from all over the country in preorganizational meetings during which it was decided to combine forces and form a national movement.
Now, I ask you... Can you imagine a romance rife with more conflict than that of a beautiful and zealous temperance advocate in love with a rugged vineyard owner who grows grapes for wine? That story simply begged to be written.
And then there’s another story “germ” that my research uncovered. Oh, Clarice, what have you become involved in?
Thank you, dear reader, for choosing to read An Unlikely Love. I hope you enjoyed Marissa and Grant’s story. I truly enjoy hearing from my readers. If you care to share your thoughts about this story, I may be reached at [email protected] or www.dorothyjclark.com.
Until next summer at Chautauqua,
Dorothy Clark
We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Love Inspired Historical title.
You find illumination in days gone by. Love Inspired Historical stories lift the spirit as heroines tackle the challenges of life in another era with hope, faith and a focus on family.
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Chapter One
June 1882
Gatlinburg, Tennessee
There was an intruder in the mercantile.
In her haste, Nicole O’Malley had forgotten to lock the rear entrance, and now she was alone.
While not common in this area, robberies weren’t unheard of. In fact, this very store had been targeted two years ago, and her oldest sister, Juliana, kidnapped by outlaws.
A shudder ripped through her as stealthy, faltering steps echoed down the long hallway that led past the private quarters, storeroom and office to where she’d been dusting shelves in the front area of the store. Whoever had dared enter after hours was up to no good.
Alarm pooling in her belly, Nicole seized a large enamel pot from the nearest shelf and wedged herself into the narrow space between the high shelving unit and door frame. She lifted it high over her head.
Her sister had been fortunate. She’d escaped unharmed.
Would Nicole face a worse fate?
What if he had a gun? What if he shot her on sight?
That’s why I have to be faster than him. Seize the element of surprise.
The footsteps neared. Paused somewhere in the vicinity of the office immediately on the other side of the doorway. Her hands curved around the pot handles until they bit into her palms. Heartbeat roaring in her ears, her arms began to tremble from the strain. The safe containing the money was in the office. If he went in there, she could try and sneak out the front entrance.
But he didn’t enter the office. Instead, he stalked through the doorway. Halted inches away, hands on lean hips as he surveyed the interior. By now things like his scent—peppermint of all things—and impressive height were registering.
The intruder seemed to be cataloging the goods. What was his plan? Steal the valuables and sell them for profit?
He started to pivot in her direction, and she caught a glimpse of sleek jawline above a starched white collar. Nicole’s throat closed up. She would not be taken hostage like Juliana. If he had time to draw his weapon, she was done for. It’s now or never.
She swung with all her might. The impact of the heavy cookware against his head knocked him forward. He grunted, hands going up as if to defend himself from another blow.
Go. Now. The pot hit the just-swept floorboards with a dull thud. She dashed into the shadowed hallway, desperation powering her rubbery legs. A low growl cracked the air. He scrambled into the hallway after her. Without warning, strong arms stole around her waist, halting her forward movement and digging into her stomach. She was shoved face-first against the wall. His large body followed, heaving chest pinning her.
“Who? Why?” he panted against her ear, hot breath fogging her neck.
“Let me go, you ill-bred ruffian!” Raising her foot, she slammed her heel down, grinding it into his boot.
He gasped, jerked, and Nicole slipped sideways out of his grasp.
�
��Oh, no, you don’t.”
He captured her before she could put any sort of distance between them, this time seizing her arms in a painful grip. Ignoring her struggles and seething threats of retribution, the intruder propelled her into the store, snatched a silk tie from the rack on the counter and tied her wrists behind her back. Anger pulsed at her temples. “You won’t get away with this,” she said.
He spun her to face him, pushed her into the lone chair and, shoving aside her skirts, bound her calves to the chair legs. Insides quivering with indignation, she did everything she could to make things difficult for him. She wiggled. Strained against the ties.
When she delivered another threat, he straightened to his full height, folded his arms and glared down at her, his honey-colored eyes glittering with ill humor. “If you don’t want me to gag that pretty little mouth of yours, I suggest you shut it.”
A lock of jet-black hair flopped over his left eyebrow, and he shoved it back, wincing when he came into contact with what was probably a good-size knot on his head.
“I don’t know what your story is, lady, but you had better hope it’s a good one. You’ll be telling it to the sheriff here shortly.”
Her frazzled mind belatedly homed in on his accent. It wasn’t the slow, easy drawl typical of East Tennessee. His words were clipped. Fast. Northern?
Dread clawed upward into her throat, nearly choking her. Please don’t let this be who I think it is. Nicole did a quick inventory of his appearance—quality brown leather boots peeked from beneath perfectly creased blue trousers. His navy vest and white shirt had been crafted from sturdy material. He didn’t dress like a ruffian. Didn’t look like one, either, with the clean shave, neat haircut and carved features. Power and authority cloaked him.
“Did you say sheriff?”
“Sure did.” He jabbed a finger in the air above her nose and quirked a mocking brow. “Stay put.”
An Unlikely Love Page 22
