* * *
Grant pushed to his feet, the back of his shirt and pants damp from the still-moist ground. His head hurt. He grimaced and rubbed at his temples. The ache was all he had to show for the hours of intense thinking. It was for sure he didn’t have an answer. At least, not one he wanted.
He brushed his pants legs and shirt free of bits of twigs and grasses and weeds, then straightened, looked around the small clearing and tugged his lips into a slanted grin. “Not a very manly reaction, Grant, running to your boyhood ‘hidey-hole.’ Still, it’s better than punching a hole in a wall, or ripping up the vines by their roots.” He slapped the flimsy branch of a sapling aside and left the clearing. “Nope, we can’t have that. The house and those vines are all you’ve got. Well, them and the debt.”
He glanced toward the sun hanging low in the sky and broke into a ground-eating lope, left the path along the lake and started up the long, sloping hill. The trellised vines flowed by him on both sides, denuded now of their fruit. His trained eye picked out the signs of the damage done by last night’s storm as he passed: a torn leaf, a cane ripped free of the wire support. He sucked air into his lungs and slowed to a trot to catch his breath and better assess the harm done. “Count your...blessings, Winston! If that storm had...hit a few hours earlier...”
Bits of green shredded leaves were everywhere. He trotted on up the slope studying the ground and frowned. It could as easily have been bits of grapes littering the straw spread beneath the rows to keep away weeds that would compete for the nutrients in the soil. If he hadn’t pushed the pickers and gotten the harvest finished before the storm hit, he wouldn’t have had money enough to pay off the note and this year’s mortgage payment and have money left for operating and living expenses in the coming year. He would have had to go further into debt with another demand note. “Thank You, Lord, for...the blessings of good...weather and a completed...harvest.”
He jogged down a cross path to his left and then, again, turned uphill. The stone chimneys and the cedar shingles of the house roof showed above the vines on the crest of the hill. His stomach tightened. He slowed to a walk. The ocher-painted siding and upstairs window came into view. The shingled porch roof. They were there—shadow figures sitting on chairs in the darker depth of the porch. One with blond curls not even the darkness could hide.
Please, Lord...
He took a breath, combed his fingers through his hair and moved on. The click of his shoe’s heels against the stone walk alerted them. Marissa rose and looked his way. Her eager smile took the breath he had left.
Help me, Lord...
He tugged his mouth into a smile and trotted up the steps. “Well, look at you two, all cozy and relaxed, drinking lemonade on the porch while a man works.” He shot a look at his mother, locked his gaze on hers. Don’t challenge me, Mother. Don’t ask...
“I thought your work was over. Now that the harvest is in, I mean.”
He hadn’t expected the question from Marissa. Her eyes widened as he moved closer. That was a mistake. She could see the condition of his clothes even in the darkness under the roof. “That storm last night was a bad one. I was checking to see how much damage was done and I got a little wet and messed up.”
“There must be quite a bit of damage since it took you this long, son. We had a bite earlier, but your dinner is in the warming oven. I’ll go and—”
“Not now, Mother. I’ll eat later. I have to get cleaned up.” He shot her a look of gratitude for not asking all those questions that were in her eyes. “It’s almost time for the Colonel Phillips to make its last run, and I’m going to take Marissa home.” He managed another smile. “All the way to Chautauqua.”
* * *
The dark clouds that had spread over the sky all day stacked up in the west and erased the sunset. Marissa gripped the rail and smiled, safe and secure with Grant beside her, though the lake water was a churning black whisper below them.
“I am learning so much from your mother, Grant. She was absolutely wonderful with those women this afternoon. When they came to your house they were all tense and uneasy. And in a matter of minutes she had everyone relaxed and talking about starting a shelter for abused women and children as if they did it every day.”
“Mother has a way about her that puts people at ease.”
“She truly does. I sensed it the first time I met her, though I was so embarrassed I could hardly bring myself to look at her.”
The grin she loved slanted his mouth. “Why? Because I carried you up on the porch like a sack of grain and all but dumped you at Mother’s feet?”
“And mussed my hair in the doing so badly I couldn’t fix it!”
“I thought you looked pretty.” He slid closer along the rail. “No, more than pretty...beautiful.” His hand covered hers. His thumb slipped beneath the hem of her sleeve and drew slow little circles on the tender inside of her wrist.
“You did?” She drew a shaky breath, tried to will her pulse to stop skipping.
“Um-hmm. I like your hair sort of mussed up, with some of the curls hanging here...” He brushed the back of his index finger from her temple to her ear. “And here...”
The same warm, tender touch whispered along the skin from the hairline behind her ear to the top of her high collar at the nape of her neck. She forgot how to breathe. His fingers tightened and drew her forward, and his lips moved over hers. She melted against him, wanting their kiss to last forever.
When he lifted his head, she opened her eyes, took a breath and stepped back, gripping the railing for support. “Tell me what’s wrong, Grant.”
He nodded and moved to stand at the railing beside her. The oil lantern hanging from the upper deck swayed back and forth challenging the darkness. The edge of its pool of yellow light gleamed on the sun streaks in Grant’s hair with each pass. Her hand itched to touch them.
“I got some unexpected news when I went to the bank today. But let me tell you from the beginning. At least as far as I know it.” He leaned his shoulder against a support post and turned to face her. “Late this morning Dillon Douglas came to the house and gave me a bank draft to pay for the grapes he’d bought from us—me.” He glanced down at the black band on his arm then looked back up at her. “I keep forgetting.”
“I know. I do, too.” Her heart hurt for him. She knew that first raw grief.
“We had a harsh winter last year that ruined most of the catawbas and the harvest profits were small. My father took out a demand note for enough to see us through to this year’s harvest. I knew I had to pay off that note, but the draft was for a sizable amount and I was still fairly well ‘set up’ by it. My father and I had an agreement. Instead of earning wages, I managed the vineyard for a percentage of the profits. That money was determined at harvest and put into the account at the bank. It worked out well. If I had a need, my father would give me the money. I never touched the account, though I had a rough idea of the total amount due me.”
His gaze fastened on hers. Her stomach tensed.
“That money, plus my percentage from this year, would have been enough to buy the Jamestown and a house and furnishings.”
Would have been. She looked out into the darkness lest he read of the sudden fear in her eyes.
“What I didn’t know was that the bank carried a large mortgage my father took out against the house and vineyard some years ago. And that a payment was due.”
The fear swelled. From the corner of her eye she saw him shift his weight and scrub his hand over the back of his neck.
“I feel the fool, being caught unaware. But my father didn’t like to talk about his finances. Whenever I questioned him, he’d say, ‘We’re doing fine’ and, with his ill health and the doctor’s warning not to upset him and stress his weak heart, I never pressed him further.”
There was disgust and self-condemnation
in his voice. She shook her head and reached over to touch his hand. “You were doing what was best for your father, Grant. There’s no blame to be found in that.”
“Thank you for that.” He turned his hand over and grasped hers, lifted it, kissed her palm, then let it go.
She curled her fingers over the warmth from his lips and braced herself, knowing there was more to come.
“After paying the note and the mortgage payment and setting aside money enough to provide living and operating expenses for this coming year—my percentage of the profits was swallowed by the debts. And then Mr. Taylor told me there was no money in the account. That my father had used my money to meet various emergencies and situations over the years. That he had meant to pay me back, but there had never been an opportunity...”
Her heart sank. She stared down at the dark water, fought back tears. Why had she ever allowed herself to hope... Grant’s hands closed on her upper arms. She lifted her head.
“I made you a promise I can’t keep, Marissa.”
“You didn’t...know...” She forced out the words. He had to know that she didn’t blame him.
The Colonel Phillips blew its whistle. The steamer lurched. The deck quivered beneath her feet.
“I’ve spent every minute since I left the bank trying to find an answer, to figure a way to make things work out. But the truth is I have no money, Marissa. I cannot buy the Jamestown. I cannot buy a house. And I cannot hire a man to manage the vineyard.”
The steamer slipped into place beside the dock as silently as her foolish dream of a future with Grant slipped away. Light from the lamps on the posts at the end of the dock fell on Grant’s face and she read the same disappointment, the same sense of loss in his eyes.
“I thought of selling the house and vineyard, but that is not possible. There is still the mortgage. Another large payment is due next year. If I sell the property now, I have to clear that debt. And that will leave Mother and me without a home, and no way for me to make a living to provide for her. I have to manage the vineyard for the next two years.”
Her last vestige of hope died. It was over. A horrible emptiness swept over her. The gangplank banged into place. “All ashore for Fair Point and Chautauqua!”
“I know it’s not what I promised. But it will be in two years, three at the most. Will you continue to see me, to find out where our feelings for each other will take us during those two years, Marissa?”
God will work a blessing into every situation.
She never would have thought this horrible emptiness would be a blessing. But as long as she didn’t think or feel, she could get through this moment. She drew a breath and shook her head. “No, Grant. I want to. With all my heart I want to. But I cannot. Not as long as you have a part in making the wine that has destroyed my family and killed my brother.” A shaking took her. Her throat and chest tightened. “Every time I see those vines I see Lincoln and my mother and father. Every time I think of those wagonloads of grapes you raised, I wonder how much suffering and misery they will cause.” She stopped, swallowed and blinked. The pain was swelling. She had to hurry. “I agreed to continue to see you these past few days because I thought you would be severing your ties to the vineyard, but that hope is gone. I’m sorry, Grant. I’m so very sorry. I care for you...but I cannot be a part of that.”
His hands tightened on her arms. “I’m not giving you up, Marissa. I’ll come tomorrow and—”
“No, Grant. Don’t come to see me again. Chautauqua is over in two days and I’ll be going home.” She gathered all of her strength and looked up at him. “Let me go, please.” No, don’t! Hold me, Grant. Don’t let me go. “The gangway is in place and it’s time for me to leave.” She waited until he’d released her, choked out, “Please tell your mother I said goodbye” and walked away.
Chapter Fourteen
Marissa slipped her hand through the cord of her purse, picked up her Bible and stepped outside. The tent flap flopped closed behind her. She waited a moment for her dry, burning eyes to adjust to the sunshine then walked from the tent to the main downhill path. The storm promised by the massing of last night’s dark clouds had been blown away. But the storm that had raged in her heart all through the long night was still roiling and churning.
Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.
She closed her mind to the memory. If she allowed herself to think about her personal life, she would fall apart. And that wasn’t acceptable. She had work to do, and a schedule to uphold for two more days.
Two more years. At the most three.
Grant’s voice echoed in her thoughts. Her heart twisted into a knot of pain that would never untangle. Not in two years. Not ever. She had only two more days and then she would leave Chautauqua and—
She took as deep a breath as her constricted chest would allow and hurried to the empty bench in the small clearing she had claimed for her study place. The thin pages of her Bible fluttered in the slight breeze. She flipped through them reading the names of the books at the top, hoping the name of one might trigger her memory. Nothing came to her. Obviously, Mrs. Winston’s assertion that God “establishes our thoughts” didn’t pertain to her or her temperance lectures.
Pain flashed. Had Grant told his mother she had refused to see him again? What would Mrs. Winston think of her now? The stinging started again in the backs of her eyes. She blinked hard and yanked her mind to the business at hand. There had to be a pertinent verse somewhere. She slipped the twisted silk carry cord off her wrist, put her purse on the bench and withdrew a pencil and a folded piece of paper. The three short lines she’d written in the midst of her sleepless night stared up at her.
The abused are not the only ones who suffer pain from the slap of a drunkard’s hand.
The imbiber may be in a torment of guilt. (Hurting the ones he loves.)
Pray for the abused and the abuser.
That odd feeling swept through her again as she read. The one she had experienced when she thought of asking people to not only start their temperance groups for the purpose of standing against the use of strong drink, but also use their groups to establish a place of help and safety and understanding for the abused of those who turned mean or violent when they overindulged.
She sat very still, afraid the feeling would disappear if she moved. It was a quietness, a sort of knowing deep within that brought her certainty that this was the right thing to do. She would end her temperance lectures by encouraging people to consider and pray for all of those involved in the situation—those who made and provided the strong drink, those who suffered abuse because of it and the abusers.
Her father.
Her face tightened. Her cheek tingled at the memory of his hand striking her. She opened the Bible, tucked the paper inside to keep it from blowing away and rose. The peaceful feeling was gone, replaced by the anger and turmoil she’d endured for five years. She glanced at the people passing by the clearing on the main path and curtailed her desire to pace lest she draw someone’s attention. She was in no condition or mood to have a casual conversation.
The short train on her plum gown dragged across the weeds and grasses, became ensnarled with a piece of dead branch. She stopped and freed her hem, then walked on, fighting the painful memories. How could she bear to go home? She dreaded the very thought of it. But how could she not return? Fear for her mother’s safety foamed to the top of her churning emotions. She was not strong enough to stop her father when he became inflamed with wine and raised his hands against her mother, but she could step in and take some of the blows herself. Her mother was too frightened, too cowed to do the same when her father turned his ire on her.
Her head throbbed. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, refused to allow the memories of Grant’s love, the safety she felt in his arms, to surface. It would be her undoing. She blinked
away the tears stinging her red, swollen eyes and set her plan. She would approach the churches in Fredonia about starting a place of safety where her mother and others like her could flee to receive help and understanding, and then she would be free to leave. Of course, nothing would truly be changed in any of them. If only that could be. A foolish wish. She breathed out a long sigh and glanced back at the bench. She had a lecture to prepare, and feeling sorry for herself was not going to get her work done.
The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.
She froze, then glanced around, which was silly of her. She knew full well that verse was only a thought. But it had been so clear it was as if it had been spoken. “‘The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much...’” Conviction came as she spoke the verse aloud.
I will pray for you and your mother, and for your father. He must be in terrible torment.
She smoothed the front of her gown and shook dust from her hem, struggling against what she felt prompted to do. The urge grew stronger. She returned to the bench, sat and picked up her Bible, clutched it to her chest and bowed her head. “Almighty God, I’m sorry for coming to You with anger in my heart. But it’s all I’ve felt toward my father in a very long time. He hits and pushes my mother, and he hits and pushes me. And I don’t understand, because he wasn’t that way. He still isn’t...until he drinks wine. But he does so more and more frequently, and he gets meaner and meaner.”
She heaved a sigh at the futility of it all. “I don’t even know what to pray, Lord. I do so want things to change. I want my father to be the way he was. I want him to stop drinking wine and to be a loving husband and father again. And I’m sorry if that sounds selfish, as if it’s all about me. But—but—” She faltered, gripped by a sudden surge of childhood memories. “—I remember how he was. He never struck us. He hugged us, and—”
She opened her eyes and looked down at the watch pinned to her bodice. “And he seems remorseful. That did not occur to me until Mrs. Winston mentioned it. But Father must be suffering torment at the pain he is inflicting on the people he loves. I don’t know why he doesn’t stop, but—” She drew a breath then plunged ahead. “Mrs. Winston said You continually lead us. So I am asking You to lead us...to lead me. If there is a way I can help my father, please show me. And please lead my father. Please help him to stop drinking that hateful wine! I so wish my mother and my father could be happy again. I confess, I don’t know how that can be. But I’m asking You to make a way. Please, Lord, make a way for them to be happy again. Amen.”
An Unlikely Love Page 16