The sun was losing its battle with the cloud shadows. The landscape was turning dark. Marissa shoved her thoughts, as dark as the clouds, away and shifted in her chair so she could not see the grapevines. The fabric of her black gown rustled softly. She glared down at it, wishing she could rip it off and throw it away. She was so tired of all the somberness that constantly reminded her of her loss and grief. How could she forget it?
The kitchen door opened and she pushed at the curls that dangled on her forehead and smiled.
“They are all gone home.” Grant’s mother smiled and took a chair. “You must be feeling very pleased about your fledgling group, Marissa. Your idea has borne fruit, though we are still trying to find our way.”
“This group was your idea, Mrs. Winston. But I thought the first meeting of the Twin Eagle Vineyard Shelter for the Abused went well.”
“Yes. Very well. The Twin Eagle Vineyard Shelter for the Abused. My, oh, my...” Mrs. Winston shook her head. A smile curved her lips. “I certainly did not expect the women to choose that name. Our Abba, Father, has a rather droll sense of humor.”
It was a notion foreign to her. “You think God has a sense of humor?” The idea was intriguing. She rather liked it.
“Of course. He made man, didn’t He?”
Mrs. Winston’s laughter was contagious. Her own bubbled up to join it, though she wasn’t sure the subject matter was appropriate. God was treated with somber reverence, like a rather cruel, all-powerful entity simply waiting for the opportunity to punish someone for disobeying His commands in her home. “And you think that God is, in some ‘mysterious’ way, responsible for the ladies selecting that particular name?”
“I do. Though there is nothing ‘mysterious’ about it. The Bible says God will guide us continually and that He will ‘establish our thoughts.’ And besides—” Mrs. Winston’s eyes twinkled at her “—have you ever known five women to agree on anything that quickly?”
The laughter burst free. A paroxysm of amusement that made her sides ache and her eyes water. It felt wonderful.
“You should do that more often, Marissa. Your laughter is like music.”
She wiped her cheeks and eyes with her fingertips, fought against a rush of sadness at the thought of returning to her home where there was no laughter...none at all since Lincoln had died.
“What is it, dear?”
Her throat constricted, ached at Mrs. Winston’s caring touch. She looked down at Grant’s mother’s hand on hers, at the black fabric that encased both of their arms. Both of them. Yet Mrs. Winston somehow found joy, and the love and strength to care about another’s hurt in the midst of her mourning. She got angry. Oh, she had joined the temperance movement because she wanted to prevent others from suffering the pain and shame and grief she had known, but it was anger and a strange sort of selfishness that motivated her, not love. She simply wanted the abuse, the waste of lives, to stop so she didn’t have to think about it and remember anymore. That was why she so hated those vines on the other side of that railing. Why she couldn’t bear to look at them. They made her remember.
“Marissa...”
Such concern in Mrs. Winston’s voice and eyes. “I’m sorry. I was remembering my brother. And that there’s been no laughter in our house for a very long time.”
“I’m sorry, dear.” Mrs. Winston’s hand squeezed hers. “I can see your pain at having lost your brother. And I know the grief one bears at the loss of a child. But time will ease the grief, Marissa. You and your parents will all laugh again.”
The love and serenity in Grant’s mother’s eyes caused the desire, the hunger to know it for her own to rise in an overwhelming wave. She took a breath and braced herself for the shocked reaction her revelation of the truth would bring. “I know what you say about grief is true, Mrs. Winston. But it’s not Lincoln’s death that stole the laughter from our house. It’s the fear and abuse. You see, my father is a secret imbiber. To the members of the community he is seen as a kind, upright and honorable man who is a loving husband and father, and a faithful Christian man who never misses a church service.” She hated the bitterness that spilled out in her voice but was helpless to stop it. “The truth is, when he’s at home he drinks wine to excess and turns into another person altogether. He shouts and rages and pushes and strikes my mother or me without cause. Then, when his ire is spent, he goes to their room and collapses on their bed.” Oh, the pain of speaking those words!
The metal of her mother’s watch she’d clasped without thought dug into her fingers. Her face tightened. “Father’s always remorseful, of course—once the wine leaves him and he wakes. This is my mother’s watch—an ‘apology’ gift to her from my father after a particularly bad beating. She was too bruised to leave the house for two weeks, but she had a costly watch for others to admire and then exclaim over her husband’s generosity, when she was able to rejoin society.”
She pressed her lips together to stop from saying more, from letting the anger ruin this day as it did so many. Her breath caught as Mrs. Winston lifted her hand and slipped her fingers between the dangling pendant of the enameled watch and the black fabric of the mourning gown that covered her hurting heart.
“I don’t believe you and your mother are the only ones who suffer pain from those blows, Marissa. Whenever I see this watch, I will pray for you and your mother, and for your father. He must be in terrible torment.”
It was not the response she had expected. Her father suffering torment? It was a possibility she had never considered. She rose, crossed to the railing and stared out at the trellised vines. Vines that could have produced the grapes that made the wine that had destroyed their family. “Grant once told me that you believe that God watches over His children, and that He will work a blessing for them into every situation. Is that true?”
“Yes, it is.”
So calm...so sure. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stop the turmoil raging within. “Even in loss and mourning?”
“Even then.”
There was a rustle of fabric. The whisper of the hems of a gown against the porch floorboards mingled with soft footfalls. Mrs. Winston gently clasped her shoulders and turned her around.
“Look at us, Marissa. We stand here together, each dressed in black, each mourning the loss of a dearly loved one, yet blessed, because in the midst of our grief and sorrow we have found each other, and you have found the gift of love in my son. How can I not believe?” Mrs. Winston reached up and her soft, warm hands cupped her face in a loving touch. “The Bible says, ‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.’ Trust Him, Marissa. Trust the Lord. He’ll work it all out.”
* * *
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.