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?”
“Well, I hoped!”
“Miss Bradley! Good afternoon, Miss Bradley! Is your trunk ready to be carried down?”
She spun about at the call and hurried to throw back the tent flap. “Yes, it is. That’s it over there. It’s to go on the Colonel Phillips, bound for the train station at Mayville.” Her stomach flopped. Her Chautauqua experience truly was coming to an end.
“I’ll see to it, miss.” The man hefted the Saratoga to his shoulder and carried it out the opening.
“Well...” She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat and lifted the black wool wrap she would wear on the train off their tree root coatrack. The night air was getting cooler.
Clarice put two new pencils in her writing box, latched it and walked toward her. “I have what I came for. Let’s walk down to the Goodbye Teachers Forum together.”
* * *
The sun was sliding toward the hilltop when it was her turn to say goodbye. Marissa stepped to the podium and gazed out at the audience. So many people. But there were quite a few familiar faces she had seen at her lectures. Clarice, of course, sitting at the front with her writing box on her lap and her pencil poised. Mrs. Austin, who nodded and smiled. And Mrs. Austin’s daughter, Rose, her face free of bruises, who gave her a shy nod. And there, smiling up at her, were Sarah Swan, and Ina, and Judith, and Lily...
And then her gaze fell on the ones she sought. Mrs. Winston, with her lovely face so calm and serene, looking dignified in her black mourning gown. And Grant, so handsome he took her breath away. She didn’t dare meet his gaze, lest she forget everything but him and the wonder of their growing love.
She took a breath, grateful she had only to speak a short summary of her message and then say goodbye. “When I accepted the invitation to speak here at the Chautauqua Sunday School Assembly, it was with a great deal of trepidation. Temperance, the subject of my lectures, is a controversial one.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.
“Overindulgence in strong drink can alter a man’s personality. It can make a kind man cruel and abusive to those who love him, and whom he loves, and bring senseless death to young men through their own foolish actions.”
I miss you, Lincoln.
“I thought there was only one answer to the problem—to close down all of the taverns and inns and clubs where strong drink is sold. And I still wish, with all my heart, that all strong drink would cease to exist. But that is an improbable hope.”
Another murmur of agreement spread among her listeners.
There are two sides to this temperance issue, Marissa. She looked down at Grant, read the understanding in his eyes, and looked away before she lost control and the tears started to fall.
“So I leave Chautauqua with a different wish in my heart. I wish that all of you would extend mercy to those who are the victims of the imbibers. That you would work in your towns and communities to create a shelter for the abused, a place they can flee to when an angry hand is raised against them. A place where they and their family will receive understanding and love, instead of judgment and shame.”
She lifted her hand and grasped her mother’s watch, then looked down at Mrs. Winston.
“And I hope that all of you will pray for the abusers, and create a place where they, also, might receive help and understanding. For surely, when they sober and realize how they have hurt the ones who love them, the ones they love, they must suffer the pain of torment.”
Please help my father, Lord. She lowered her hand and lifted her chin, prepared to share the verse she had found yesterday in the clearing when she had prayed for her father.
“The Bible says we are to pray for one another—even those ‘who despitefully use you.’ My hope, my prayer is that you will answer that call. Thank you and good evening.”
* * *
The house was dark in the dusk, the porch a beckoning shadow. When would she see it again? Marissa closed her mind to the thought. All afternoon and evening she had been saying goodbye, and the hardest was yet to come.
“I’ll go in first and light the lamps for you, Mother.”
Grant’s voice drew her back to the present; his fading footsteps brought her to another moment of parting. She would miss his mother. She had learned so much from her and had grown to love her. The hems of the short trains on their black gowns brushed across the stone as they walked side by side to the house. Her throat closed around a painful lump when Mrs. Winston stopped at the base of the steps.
“I’m so thankful I came to hear you speak tonight, Marissa. I was very moved by what you said. And I know many others were, as well.”
“That’s very generous of you, Mrs. Winston.” She picked a leaf off the vine and tucked it into her pocket to take home with her. “It was you who made me think about how my father must be suffering. I only repeated what you taught me.”
“You said what was in your heart, dear. If I, in any way, helped you to recognize that, I’m very pleased.”
Yellow lamplight spilled from the sitting room window and chased the shadow from the porch. It was time. Her eyes stung with tears.
“I shall miss you, Marissa. I’ve grown very fond of you.”
“And I of you.” The words were a painful whisper. Grant’s footsteps sounded on the porch. Mrs. Winston’s hand touched her arm.
“Will you write to me, dear? I shall wor—wonder about you, and how you fare with your temperance work. I’ll be most interested to know how you come along with the shelter for the abused you are planning to start in your town.”
Grant came off the porch, moved a few steps toward the road and waited.
She swallowed, forced out words, tried for a smile and failed. “I’ll write. I’m certain I shall be asking you for advice. Your shelter will be far ahead of mine.”
“Our shelter, Marissa.” Mrs. Winston gave a soft, little laugh. “If you hadn’t led Sarah and the other ladies in a protest march against the vineyard, the Twin Eagle Vineyard Shelter for the Abused would never have come into being. What a blessing that march turned out to be.”
God will work a blessing for you into every situation.
She blinked and nodded.
Mrs. Winston stepped close, enfolded her in a warm hug. “And what a blessing you are to me, dear. I shall pray for you every day. And for God to work things out.” Mrs. Winston laughed, turned and walked up the steps. “I know you and Grant have made plans, but I believe God has a plan, also. And I prefer His, no matter what it may be, because His way is always the best way. Now, I shall stop talking and go inside so I don’t make you miss your train.”
The door closed.
She looked down at the stone walk, took a deep breath and caught her lower lip with her teeth.
“Marissa...”
“Y-yes?”
“If I hold you will it make it better or worse?”
“B-both.”
“Then, for the sake of any neighbors who may be watching, I’ll content myself with loaning you my handkerchief.”
A white square of linen was handed over her shoulder and waved like a flag. Her lips twitched. It was exactly the sort of thing Mrs. Winston would do. Grant was a good deal like his mother. It was no wonder she loved them both. “Coward.” She took the handkerchief and dried her eyes, turned and handed it back. “Thank you. I’m ready to go now. Do you think the neighbors would approve if I take your arm?” She gave him a saucy grin.
“A pox on the neighbors!”
The words were a husky growl. Grant clasped both sides of her shawl, gave a quick yank that pulled her close, claimed her lips then let her go.
She stepped back, her cheeks burning, and darted a look at the nearby houses.
His chuckle made her toes tingle.
“Now who’s the coward?”
He took her hand, tucked it in the crook of his arm and started down the long slope of the road.
She wanted to turn and run the other way.
“Marissa...”
She loved how he said her name. It sounded different...special. “Yes?”
“Will you be all right?” He covered her hand with his, looked down at her. “I hate the thought of you going home.” His hand flexed. “If your father hits you, I’ll—”
Fear twisted in her already taut stomach. She lifted her head, forced confidence into her voice. She couldn’t let him know she was afraid. “I’ll be all right, Grant. I’m going to talk to the board members of our church about opening a shelter. I’m sure there are members of the congregation who will sacrifice some of their time to run it.”
She reached beneath the fear to find the new assurance of faith in God she was learning. “I’ve learned so much from your mother about faith, and the Christian way to treat others. Having the church involved will be perfect.”
“Christians are only people, Marissa. They’re not perfect.”
She hadn’t alleviated his concern for her. It was still in his voice. She tightened her grip on his arm. “I know. But God is.”
“You are learning from Mother.”
He couldn’t quite carry off the attempt at humor. She rested her head against his shoulder for an all too brief moment, straightened and caught her breath as they reached the curve at the bottom of the hill and the railroad station came into view. How long...
The Colonel Phillips floated at anchor at the end of the long dock. Rowboats and canoes snubbed to the pilings along its length bobbed on the water. People strolled about on the shore area between the lake and the railroad station, clustered in small groups beneath the wide overhangs of the roof. Piles of trunks and mounds of bags sat on the ground beside the railroad tracks. Hers was among them.
“Chatauquans are going home.” There was a quiver in her voice.
“Until next year.”
Frustration colored his words. He turned at an angle and she walked willingly beside him to “their” spot in the dark shadow of the tree close to the station yard. “I’ll say my goodbye here.”
Her composure shattered. Tears slipped down her cheeks.
His arms closed around her, held her to him. He lowered his head and pressed his cheek against her hair.
“I hate to have you go home, Marissa. Two years is so long. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
His husky voice added to the pain in her heart. “I’ll be all right, Grant. I’ll be busy working to make a place of shelter...to make sure my mother will be safe. And there will be speaking engagements to—”
A whistle blew. A beam of light split the darkness.
He lifted his hands and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “And next year at Chautauqua.”
The whistle blew again. The light widened. Wheels clattered against the metal rails.
He kissed her. A fierce, desperate kiss that splintered her heart. She pressed against him, needing his strength, the sureness and security of his arms. Next year at Chautauqua. A lifetime. “Yes, next year at Chautauqua. If you don’t forget me.”
The clattering slowed, stopped. The door on the baggage car opened and crew members hopped down to the ground, lifted trunks and bags to unseen men inside who stowed them away in the dark cavernous interior. A porter shoved steps in place and helped a woman descend from the passenger car. Two men followed. The porter tugged a watch from his pocket, glanced at it and hurried into the station.
“Forget you?” Grant’s voice was thick, gruff. “Never, Marissa. That’s not possible.” His lips brushed hers, soft, warm, tender...heartbreaking.
She slipped her hand through his offered arm and they stepped out of the tree shadow, crossed the yard and walked to the passenger car, the ache in her heart deepening with every step. His strong hand held hers, steadied her as she climbed the steps. She entered the car, turned and looked down at him. Her lips trembled when she curved them into a smile. “Next year at Chautauqua...”