Free An Unlikely Love by Dorothy Clark Page A

Fair’s fair.” The group snickered.
    Grant started forward again. Marissa was no match for—
    â€œWe do not. The warning says, ‘They that tarry
long
at the wine...’ That does not happen at a church Communion service, sir.”
    There was a burst of applause. A woman surged to her feet. “I want to start a temperance group when I go home.” There was a chorus of agreement. The woman looked around, stood straighter. “Will you tell me—”
    A blast of a steamer’s horn drowned out the rest of the woman’s words. He looked toward the lake, glanced back at Marissa. She was holding her own, and he had no choice. At least John Hirsch and his friends had to leave, too. He blew out a breath and headed for the path to the lake.
    * * *
    The jet buttons that fastened the bodice of the dress she’d removed shimmered through her watery gaze. Marissa blinked away the rush of tears. She hated the black dress. It made Lincoln’s death real. Not that it wasn’t every minute of every day. But the dress brought back the raw pain of his passing. And talking about it this evening...
    She drew a breath and gave a quick tug on the black ribbon that restrained her curls. They fell onto her shoulders and tumbled down her back. She stared down at the ribbon in her hand, played it through her fingers. Grant had been there. She’d thought after their tiff last night that she’d seen the last of him in spite of his declaration. But he’d come. She’d seen him standing beside a support post at the back, and the tightness in her chest had eased, her pain had dulled. How could the mere sight of a man she’d known for such a short time make her feel better?
    She tossed the ribbon on top of her black hat lying on the dress draped over her open trunk and slipped beneath the covers. Clarice would be back from the necessary any moment, and she was in no mood to talk. Sadness for all those women who had come to her lecture seeking answers and asking for help to change situations they perceived as hopeless weighed on her. As did the anger of the men who came to stand against the temperance movement and challenge its message. One way or another, those men were ensnared. If not by the need for strong drink itself, then by the money they made providing it to those who had such a need. Her heart ached for them.
    A long sigh escaped her. “Blessed Lord, You alone have the power to free all of those who are entangled by the webs woven by strong drink. Help them to seek You, Lord, that You might break the bonds that hold them prisoner, for Your Word declares, ‘If the Son therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed.’”
    The tent flap rustled. She closed her eyes, feigned sleep as Clarice prepared for bed. Grant had come to her lecture, but when she had glanced his way the second time he was gone. A woman had stood in his place by the post. Had he been offended by her message? Was he a drinker and thus opposed to the temperance movement? She drew a breath against a sudden, hollow feeling in her stomach, let it out quietly. Her budding relationship with Grant was one more thing strong drink had stolen from her. She would never know what might have been.
    Tears stung her eyes. How she hated wine! It had cost her everything she held dear—her happy family life, her brother and any chance for love. She lay unmoving, wishing Clarice would go to sleep so she could rise and get her Bible to hold. Clutching God’s Word close to her heart always helped to stave off the bitter loneliness.
    * * *
    The door whispered open. Grant pulled his shoulder away from where it rested against the porch post and turned. His mother lifted the cup in her hand, gave him a tentative smile and stepped out onto the back porch.
    â€œOur bedroom window is open and I smelled the coffee. I thought I’d come and join you—unless you prefer to be alone?”
    He pasted on a