Grant leaned his shoulder against a post and stared out over the lake, irritated beyond reason by Marissa’s attempts to keep her hairdo tidy. Why didn’t she just allow the unruly curls to blow free? What did a few curls around her face hurt? Except they made him want to— He broke off the thought and jammed his hands into his pockets. That was over. Along with all he’d been considering and planning since the night of her first lecture.
“I’m sorry your father is feeling unwell, Grant. I hope he’s better tomorrow.”
The sympathy in her voice rankled. Where was her concern when she’d decided to try and destroy their livelihood? Had she even considered that before she’d hatched her protest scheme against them?
“He’s burdened with worry. He’ll be better when the harvest is over and he can settle his debts and set aside money enough to keep us through the next harvest.” He glanced at her then looked back out over the water. “That’s what was in those baskets in the wagons you tried to stop, Marissa. Our living for the coming year, and my father’s peace of mind.” And my chance to have a business of my own. Which had seemed more pressing of late. He held back a snort of disgust for his idiocy in thinking she’d felt the same depth of attraction as he.
Nothing but silence. Evidently, she felt no need to answer. Or had none. He watched the red rays of the setting sun being swallowed by the encroaching night and listened to the rush of the water along the steamer as the reflected red glow was erased from the lake. The trip to Fair Point had never seemed so long.
“I only saw the grapes in those baskets, Grant. And what the grapes represented.”
Did she not see the flaw in her justification? He turned and fastened his gaze on hers. “No, you saw one side of what they represented, Marissa. I’m sorry for all you’ve suffered—truly sorry—but I grow grapes for a living, not wine.”
“They make wine.”
He pulled in a breath. “Dillon Douglas uses them to make wine, yes. That’s how he makes the living that takes care of his family. And John Hirsch sells the wine at his tavern. That’s how he makes his living and cares for his wife and seven children. And I grow grapes for my family, to make our living. There are two sides to this temperance issue, Marissa. You’ve opened my eyes to yours—to the pain overindulgence in wine or liquor can cause. I was unaware of that. I guess because women like Sarah Swan and the others with her today keep it hidden.”
“What else can they do?” She lifted her chin. “It’s shaming and painful for others to know that your husband or father—” Her voice broke. She faced out over the water and blinked hard.
Her pain tore at him, but he pressed his point. “They can do what you are doing, Marissa. They can stop hiding. I think what you are doing in bringing the truth out into the open as you do with your lectures will help to get rid of that shame. And, also, as you point out in your lectures, strengthen and help those who are suffering by learning that they are not alone in their despair. I hope that it does. No woman should have to endure what you and your mother suffer, Marissa. What Sarah Swan bears. But causing others pain and suffering by taking away their means of livelihood will not help you and your mother, or Sarah Swan and the others.”
She turned back and looked up at him.
“I don’t want to cause anyone pain or suffering, Grant. Certainly not your family. I didn’t even know—” She stopped, drew in a long breath. “Mrs. Swan wrote me a letter asking me to come and lead a small group of women in protest against the local wineries and vineyards. And it seemed an excellent way to spread the temperance message. I met Sarah Swan after my first lecture then held a meeting with her and the others yesterday to plan our march. That’s when Judith Moore said the Oakwood Winery would be harvesting grapes at the Twin Eagle Vineyard today and wouldn’t it be a good idea if we could stop the wagons? I didn’t know you owned— But then I thought maybe— And I hoped and prayed you didn’t— And— Oh, I’m so confused!” She choked on a sob, hid her face with her hands. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I want to help— Oh, I just hate wine!”
She hadn’t known it was his vineyard. His pulse raced. “Marissa, we—”
The whistle blew. If he could have reached it, he would have ripped it off and thrown it in the lake. The steamer lurched, slowed. He grabbed Marissa’s hand and tugged her toward the gangway. “We have to hurry. I only have time to walk you to your tent and run back before the steamer starts its return trip. I’ll tell you what I want to say on the way.”
“No.” She pulled her hand out of his and stepped back. “You haven’t enough time, Grant. And...and you were right. It’s best we say goodbye right now. I— It’s our...situation.” Her shoulders drew back. Her chin lifted. “I listened to what you said, and I agree now that it’s harmful for me to try and destroy someone’s means of making a living, no matter how much harm I think it might do. But I can’t stop protesting strong drink. And you— It’s hopeless.”
He might have believed her but for the shimmer of tears in her eyes. “No, it’s not.” He glanced at the people boarding for the return trip to Mayville, took hold of her elbow and led her to a secluded spot by the side wheel. “I want to continue to see you, Marissa. And I think you feel the same about me.”
“Yes, but—”
Yes. His pulse leaped. The “but” didn’t matter in the face of that yes. He pulled her closer. “There’s no time for argument. I realize my running the vineyard goes against all that you believe, Marissa. But I told you running the vineyard was not my choice. If not for my father’s accident, I would be a scientist or have a business of my own. And now, with the concords growing well and the money from the harvest, I’ll be able to hire someone to care for the vineyard in my place.”
“Oh, Grant...truly?” Hope flickered in her eyes.
“Truly. That way my parents will keep their home and livelihood, and I’ll be free to find another way to make a living. It’s too late to pursue a science career, but I’ve thought of buying a steamer. I’ve money set aside, and I know a captain that’s moving away and wants to sell his boat and his house.” His throat thickened. He closed his hands around her narrow waist, took a breath and plunged ahead into uncharted waters. “With my share of this year’s profits I should have enough to make an offer to the captain. Do you think you could get used to riding on a steamer?”
Her smile took his breath. “Would you be beside me to keep me safe when the deck is slick?”
“I would. And one more thing, Marissa...”
“Yes?”
The word was little more than a whisper. His heart thundered at the look in her eyes. “I read your sign. And...I don’t drink wine.” He leaned down and brushed her soft lips with his, then stepped back, took her hand and led her to the gangplank before he gave in to the temptation to capture her lips in a real kiss.
* * *
The torches sputtered flickering light onto the path. Small twigs and the few early fallen leaves crackled beneath her feet.
I’ll be free to find another way to make a living... Do you think you could get used to riding on a steamer? Her heart was singing the words over and over again. How strange that no one walking on the path heard it. She smiled at the whimsical thought and pulled the wool shawl more closely around her shoulders against the evening chill that had settled among the trees.
I read your sign. And...I don’t drink wine.
A tingle ran down her spine, spread out in a delicious warmth. Her steps faltered at the memory of the moment when Grant had brushed her lips with his. Only the presence of the others walking on the path kept her from spreading her arms and whirling about in happiness. Nothing she had ever known came even close to the emotion that had rushed through her when he’d pulled her close.
She sighed and stepped into the large clearing at the top of the hill, walked toward her tent and stopped. Clarice was home. Observant, inquisitive Clarice. Her tent mate’s shadowy form showed clearly between the canvas wall of the tent and the oil lamp on the desk where she sat working—no doubt adding substance to the notes she’d taken today for her “Chautauqua Experience” article.
Reticence moved her forward to the wooden bench beneath the trees at the end of the clearing. She was too honest to lie, too happy to dissemble and too shy to want to share this new, confusing but wonderful emotion with anyone. A smile touched her lips. She raised her hand to smooth back a curl tickling her temple, and her wrist brushed against something cold and hard. She winced and stared down at her mother’s enameled watch—her father’s apology. Reality burst upon her euphoria. People changed over time. Her father hadn’t drunk wine until they moved to town. How could she be sure that Grant—
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 had 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...”