An Unlikely Love

by Dorothy Clark

  No. She would not doubt. She would not let the hurtful memories intrude on the joy of the moment. It might be all she would ever have. She would keep the memory unsullied by the ugliness in her life. She lifted the side of Grant’s mother’s shawl that had slipped from her shoulder and covered the watch.

  * * *

  Grant whistled his way up the porch steps and into the house. “Mother...” He stepped into the sitting room. Empty. A chair scraped on the upstairs floor. Ah, she was in the bedroom with his father. Good! He could tell them both he’d finally found a woman he was interested in courting in a serious way—a temperance advocate. Well, maybe he’d withhold that bit of information from his father until after he’d met Marissa.

  He grinned, ignored the banister and took the stairs two at a time, halted at the top. A strange sort of heaviness weighted the air. Silence pressed upon him. He fastened his gaze on his parents’ partially open bedroom door and started forward.

  Light spilled into the hallway. A lanky man in a dark suit stepped out of the bedroom and pulled the door closed behind him. “I thought I heard you, Grant.”

  “Good evening, Dr. Richards.” He shot another glance toward the bedroom. “Is Father having another spell?”

  The doctor shook his head and placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, son. Your father’s heart finally gave out.”

  Denial stiffened his back. “But that can’t be. He always—” He stared into the doctor’s eyes and the truth slammed into his heart. He fisted his hands, swallowed back the useless protest. “He wasn’t feeling well when I left for Fair Point. I should have stopped then and asked you to come to see him.”

  “It wouldn’t have changed anything, Grant. There’s nothing more I could have done. This has been coming for some time. It’s only your father’s determination that kept him alive this long.”

  Stubborn isn’t strong, Grant. It’s merely...stubborn...

  His chest tightened. He cleared his throat. “Is Mother all right?”

  “Yes. She’s with him.”

  He nodded and reached for the bedroom door.

  The doctor put out his hand and stopped him. “I’m on my way to get Porter.”

  The funeral director. He took a breath, stared down at the floor.

  “It was your father’s request. He said it would be easier on your mother. And he told me to tell you the best thing you could do for him and your mother now was to get the harvest in and tend the vines.”

  That was his father. Was. The word left him breathless. He nodded and grabbed the doorknob, fought for control as the doctor patted his shoulder, then walked down the stairs.

  The front door opened and closed. Silence settled—pressed in on him. “I need Your help, Lord. I need You to give me strength and wisdom that I might be all that my mother needs me to be for her now.” The whispered prayer rose from his heart, rasped from his constricted throat. He pulled in another breath, squared his shoulders and turned the knob.

  * * *

  Marissa dumped her wash water into the bucket, rubbed cream on her face and hands and glanced around the tent. It had seemed spacious before. Now it seemed much too confining. The happiness bubbling inside her demanded expression. But there was no place she could be alone to release it. She glanced at Clarice, sleeping soundly in spite of the snores and occasional snorts coming from the surrounding tents. Perhaps, if she were quiet...

  She lifted her plum dress from her cot, hummed softly while she shook it out and draped it across her trunk, then folded Grant’s mother’s scarf.

  I want to continue to see you, Marissa...

  She placed the scarf on top of her dress, her fingers lingering on the softness. They had been so focused on each other when they said good-night that they had forgotten about the scarf. At least she had. A thrill ran through her. Grant had told her he would be too busy overseeing the harvest to come to Chautauqua for the next few days. Had he left the scarf on purpose? So she would have to return it? Good manners dictated that.

  She laughed softly, draped the scarf around her shoulders and dipped and whirled about in the small space.

  “Oft in the twilight I’m dreaming... Dreaming of joys that may be...”

  The long skirt of her nightgown billowed, fluttered down around her legs and billowed out again.

  “Longing for eyes that are beaming... Patiently watching for me...”

  Clarice’s cot creaked.

  She froze, choked off the song.

  Clarice yawned, opened her eyes and rolled up onto her elbow. “Is something wrong, Marissa? Are you ill?”

  “No. I couldn’t sleep is all.”

  “Are you dreaming, too?” Her tent mate’s lips curved in a tired smile and she rolled down onto her back. “I dreamed I...heard...singing...”

  She watched Clarice’s eyelids drift closed and breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing she wanted was a barrage of questions about her unusual behavior. These new feelings Grant brought forth in her were not to be fodder for Clarice’s article. She could see it now— “Miss Practical finds love at Chautauqua!” What if her mother— Oh, no! She hadn’t kept her promise to write!

  The small box of stationery supplies her mother had insisted she bring with her was at the bottom of her trunk. She carried them to the small desk and set Clarice’s writing box on the floor. A twirl of the knob raised the wick in the oil lamp and spilled golden light over the desktop. She settled in the chair, dipped her pen in her ink and leaned forward over the flower-decorated stationery paper.

  Dearest Mother,

  Please forgive me. I am sorry I have been so long in writing. I am very busy. The Chautauqua Assembly is very well attended. There are thousands of people here, not the hundreds I expected. As you may suppose, my lectures have drawn a good deal of attention. The debates held after I speak are heated but, for the most part, well-mannered. You need not fret for my safety, Mother.

  I have a most interesting tent mate. Her name is Clarice Gordon. She is a young reporter who is incessantly taking notes for an article she is writing for the Sunday School Journal, one in which I make an anonymous appearance. I shall attempt to obtain a copy for you.

  She stopped writing and stared down at the letter. Should she mention Grant? Could she keep what was in her heart from overflowing onto the paper? She longed to tell her mother how wonderful he was, and how much she liked him. But— No. That information would be better shared in person. She sighed and dipped her pen.

  Your worry over my journey was all for naught, Mother. It was not at all troublesome. I detrained at the Mayville Station, which is located on the lake only a few feet from the dock where the Colonel Phillips is moored. I confess riding on the steamer made me nervous. It was dark, and raining, and the deck was slick. A very kind young man assisted me. Mr. Winston also helped allay my nervousness when we disembarked at the campgrounds here at Fair Point. I was most appreciative.

  Living in a tent is not as burdensome as you supposed, Mother. It is certainly not as comfortable as home, but it answers the need for shelter quite well. So, Mother, you need not be concerned for me. I am well. I pray this letter finds you the same. My best to Father.

  Your loving daughter,

  Marissa

  Was her mother well? Or was she bruised and battered? Concern welled, knotted her stomach. Memories stole her joy. Was she making a mistake? Was she being foolish to even consider placing her heart at a man’s mercy? Many men were kind and loving husbands and fathers. She knew that. And Grant seemed so wonderful, so kind and caring. But how could she know? Strong drink changed men, eroded their morals and self-control.

  She folded the letter, sealed and addressed it, turned down the wick and put her things away. She would post the letter when she went to Mayville to return the scarf. Tears stung her eyes. The happiness that h
ad filled her at that thought earlier was gone—stolen by the memory of her drunken father’s hand striking her.

  She stared at the folded length of soft gray wool. Mrs. Winston had seemed so...serene when she met her. There’d been no fear or shame lurking in the woman’s eyes. No hesitance in her warm and welcoming smile. It was impossible to think Grant’s mother had ever been struck by her husband.

  You’ve opened my eyes to yours—to the pain overindulgence in wine or liquor can cause. I was unaware of that... No woman should have to endure what you and your mother suffer.

  Her breath caught. Her impression was right. There was no abuse or drunkenness in Grant’s family or he would surely know. Grant was kind and caring. But if—

  I don’t drink wine.

  Her pulse quickened. She pulled back the covers, slipped into bed and rested her head on her feather pillow. He was a vineyard owner. Surely if Grant were going to drink wine, he would already do so. The problem was hers. She blinked tears from her eyes and stared at the canvas stretched above. Blessed Lord, please help me to learn to trust again.

  * * *

  Grant leaned his forearms on the porch railing and stared at the wisp of steam rising from the cup of coffee clutched between his hands. How was he going to cope? He had his father’s funeral and burial to plan and attend, his mother to care for through it all, and the business end of the vineyard to manage as well as continuing to oversee the harvest.

  He straightened and looked out over the vines trailing away down the slope to the lake. It would help if there were someone who could step into his place. But every time he had suggested they hire a man to help him, his father had insisted that they managed well enough by hiring temporary help during pruning and other pressing times.

  That uneasiness he’d been suppressing for months rose. He should have insisted that they discuss the vineyard finances in spite of his father’s ill health. He’d known that his father was worried. Maybe he could have helped...

  “It will be all right, Grant.”

  Some care he was giving his mother. She was reassuring him. He looked over at her sitting on the porch swing, her lovely features gilded by the light of the oil lamps hanging on either side of the kitchen door. She looked tired. And sad. The shadow of grief in her eyes ripped at his heart. “I know.”

  He put aside the concerns weighing on him, sat down beside her and pushed against the porch floor with his feet. The swing swooped back and forth. “And you’re going to be all right, too.” He slanted his mouth into a grin. “When I gwow up, I’m going to take bewy good cawe of you.” It worked. Her lips curved into a smile at his resort to his oft-repeated promise as a child.

  “This is nice. It puts me in mind of when you were little and I would swing you.” She looked over at him, her eyes warm with love and memories. “I could heal all of your hurts with a kiss or a cookie then.”

  “Or both.”

  “Yes. Or both.” She looked down at the cup she held and took a breath. “I’m afraid I don’t have a cookie big enough to heal this one.”

  He cleared his throat, leaned toward her and pushed his cheek forward. “A kiss will make it better.” Surprisingly, it did. There was something special in his mother’s touch.

  “There’s something your father wanted me to tell you, Grant.” She looked at him then leaned against the swing back. “He told me to tell you that he was very proud of you. And that he considered himself blessed to have you for a son.” Her voice choked. She wiped the tears from her eyes then fastened her gaze on him again. “I can’t tell you the countless times, since the accident crippled him, that Andrew said to me, ‘I’m blessed to have a son willing to lay down his dream and pick up mine, Ruth. And the boy’s a worker! He’s got a real touch for the vines. They’ll prosper under his hand, and so will we. Yes, sir. I’m blessed!’ And so am I, son. You are such a comfort to me.” She gave him a wobbly smile. “Now...let’s talk about something else—like that young lady you...er...brought to the house this afternoon.”

  “Marissa?” He blurted out her name, caught off guard by the change of subject.

  His mother’s eyebrows rose. “Marissa? How long have you known this zealous young temperance advocate?”

  “I met her on the Colonel Phillips on the way to Fair Point the night before the assembly began.”

  “A vineyard owner and a temperance lady? That must have been quite a meeting.” She took a sip of her coffee, peered at him over the top of her cup. “It’s odd that you haven’t mentioned this young woman until now.”

  Speculation flickered through the sadness in his mother’s eyes. Her undying hope was that he would marry and give her grandchildren. Perhaps telling her about Marissa was the perfect way to comfort her now, to give her hope for the future and take her mind from her sorrow. “Well, let me remedy that right now.” He gave another push with his feet to keep the swing in motion. “It was raining that night and the deck was slick...”

  Chapter Eight

  The long, sloping uphill climb was both too long and too short. Marissa stopped in front of the Winston house, her heart pounding. Would Grant be pleased to see her? Or had his expressed desire to continue to see her changed now that he’d had time to think about their situation? He had said it would be a few days before he would be able to come back to Chautauqua. It had been five. And she had been too busy with lectures and meetings with women who wanted advice on starting temperance groups and meetings for teachers and speakers called by the Chautauqua leaders to make the trip to Mayville. And now...well, now here she was, doubts, nerves and all.

  She looked down at the folded scarf in her hands, adjusted the small “thank you” sachet on the top and hoped again that Mrs. Winston liked lavender. A pat of her curls and a quick smooth of the long skirt of her dark gray day dress gave her a bit more confidence. She straightened her back and shoulders and walked up the stone path to the inviting, vine-covered porch, trepidation in every step. When they’d met, Mrs. Winston had been very gracious and kind to her in spite of the protest she’d led against their vineyard and Grant all but dumping her on their back porch. But what of Mr. Winston? He might not take as kindly a view of her attempt to stop their grapes from reaching the winery.

  Our living for the coming year, and my father’s peace of mind...

  Her stomach knotted. Why did things have to be so complicated? She drew a breath and reached for the brass knocker on the white-painted front door. Three sharp raps and her fate was sealed. She would have to face Mr. and Mrs. Winston, Grant and whatever was to be. There was no turning back now.

  The latch clicked.

  She lifted her chin and smiled.

  “Marissa!”

  The sight of Grant, the glad surprise in his voice and eyes sent her doubts flying and her heart soaring.

  He stretched out his arm and took hold of her free hand. “Come in here.”

  Her breath caught at his soft, husky tone. She moved forward, then stopped, jarred by the sight of a black band on the sleeve of his shirt. She swept her gaze up to his face. “Grant, what—”

  He pulled her inside and closed the door. “My father passed away the evening I took you back to Fair Point, Marissa. I learned of his death when I came home that night.” He cleared his throat. “That’s why I haven’t been able to come to Chautauqua to see you. We...buried him yesterday.”

  “Oh, Grant, I’m so sorry.” Tears welled in her eyes. “So very sorry.”

  He nodded, pulled her into his arms and laid his cheek against her curls. She rested against him, at one with him in his grief.

  “I’m glad you came.” He cleared his throat again, leaned back and looked down at her. “I couldn’t leave to come and explain why I couldn’t come to see you. And I couldn’t think of any way to get word to you. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, Grant, don’t apologize. I
understand. I only wish there were something I could do to ease your pain. But I’ve learned that only time will do that.” She blinked the moisture from her eyes and wiggled her hand holding the scarf that was trapped between them. “I came to return your mother’s wrap, but I don’t want to disturb her now.” She looked up and met his gaze. Warmth spread through her, settling in her heart. “Will you please give it to her along with the small thank-you gift and—”

  “You’re not leaving.” His arms tightened around her. “Seeing you is exactly what I need right now.”

  “And I’m here.”

  Mrs. Winston! She shoved against Grant’s chest and spun about. The sachet fell. She stooped and snatched it up, faced Grant’s mother and held out her hands, staring down at the small lace-edged sachet pillow atop the soft gray wool scarf. She would likely be ordered from the woman’s house. Exactly what she deserved for— Her cheeks burned. She took a breath and lifted her head, looked at Grant’s mother pale in her black mourning clothes. “I came to return your wrap, Mrs. Winston. Thank you so much for the use of it. And may I offer my deep sympathy for your loss.”

  “Thank you, Miss Bradley.” Mrs. Winston blinked, looked down and lifted the sachet. “What is this?” She lifted it to her nose. “Mmm, lavender.”

  “It’s a small token to show my appreciation. I hope you will find it useful.” She drew a calming breath. Perhaps she could leave gracefully after all. “Now, if you will excuse me...”

  “I’m afraid not, Miss Bradley.”

  She braced herself for the chastisement she deserved for being found in the woman’s son’s embrace.

  Mrs. Winston gave her a wan smile. “I owe you a glass of lemonade.”

  She stared at Mrs. Winston’s smile, taken aback by the woman’s graciousness. She knew the effort that smile cost her in her grief. “You’re most kind, Mrs. Winston. But I don’t want to intrude on your grief. I know how—” Memories flashed. Her voice broke. Grant’s hands closed around her waist, and everything in her longed to lean back against him.