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.”
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 streaks 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.