It held all manner of writing supplies.
“I’m making a note to include this story in my article. It’s the sort of personal touch that will make my report on this assembly lively and entertaining as well as factual. I shall title it ‘The Chautauqua Experience.’” Miss Gordon pulled out pencil and paper, dashed down words. “This is exactly what I was looking for. Something that will make my article stand out from all the other dull, factual reports and gain the editor’s and publisher’s attention.”
His eyebrows rose. “Publisher?”
Marissa Bradley glanced at him, something akin to apprehension in her eyes. “Clarice is a reporter for the Sunday School Journal.” She turned back to Miss Gordon. “You’ll not mention me by name?”
“Not if you don’t wish me to. Let me think...” Miss Gordon stopped writing, looked up and grinned. “Ah! I’ve thought of the perfect name! I’ll call you ‘Miss Practical.’ Do you agree, Mr. Winston?”
“With your choice of the name ‘Miss Practical’ for the article? Yes, indeed. But as the perfect name for Miss Bradley...” He drew his gaze slowly over her face, his pulse leaping as pink again stole across her delicate cheekbones. “It is too early in my acquaintance with Miss Bradley for me to have an opinion as to that.”
A pudgy hand holding a plate of food inserted itself between them. He nodded his thanks as a woman placed tin plates holding boiled potatoes, green beans and two-tined steel forks in front of them, then looked back at Marissa Bradley trying to judge her reaction to his intimation that he would like their budding acquaintance to continue. She had her gaze fixed on her plate. No encouragement there.
He frowned down at his food, stabbed a bite of potato. There was something about Marissa Bradley that drew him in a way no other woman had done. Perhaps it was the mystery of the sadness in her eyes. Whatever it was, he intended to see her again—though instinct warned him she was a very proper young lady and would refuse a direct invitation. Propriety!
He jabbed a forkful of green beans, lifted them to his mouth as he pondered the problem. How could he overcome the social conventions of propriety? Another “chance” meeting? He worried the idea around a bit, smiled and impaled another potato. With all of its activities, the assembly should offer ample opportunity. He would find a way.
* * *
Marissa rose from the bench and slipped out of the tent to avoid the crush of people when the lecture was over. What a wonderful speaker! The woman had been so concise in making her points about each moral idea she presented. Envy struck, brought forth a long sigh. If only she could be that succinct when she was speaking. Unfortunately, memories always came swarming into her head and her heart got involved. Her subject was not an academic one. It was personal. She lived it.
Grief rose in a sickening wave. Tears stung her eyes. She lifted her hems and ran down the short, narrow path to the larger main one. It was crowded with people. The hum of their voices, chatting and laughing, caused her tears to overflow. She looked around, but there was no place to go where she could be alone. Dusk was falling, and it was too dark to go into the woods, even if she dared.
She drew a long steadying breath, wiped the tears from her cheeks and joined the flow of people going downhill.
“...saw them putting up the canopy on the shore.”
“...the concert...”
“...perfect end to the day.”
Bits of conversations about the evening entertainment flowed around her. She eavesdropped shamelessly, using the distraction of learning more about the concert to get her emotions under control. Sorting the pieces of information from the general hum of conversation was challenging, like putting a jigsaw puzzle together, and it kept her from remembering. The tightness in her chest eased.
Light flared against the dark trees beside the path ahead. She looked up at the man who had lit the torch in its box of sand, watched as he closed his lantern and climbed down the ladder of short cross boards nailed to the post. A young dark-haired woman stood in the flickering light writing something on a piece of paper that rested on top of a slender wooden box.
“Clarice!”
Her tent mate turned and looked up the path.
She waved her hand and hurried forward. “I see you are taking notes for your ‘Chautauqua Experience’ article.” She peered down at the paper. “What did you call the man—Mr. Lamplighter?”
“No. I named him Mr. Torch Man. It’s more accurate and colorful.” Clarice slipped the paper into the box, latched it and held it against her chest. “Are you going to the concert? If so, we can walk together.”
It would be better than sitting alone in the tent remembering. She took a breath and squared her shoulders. “Yes, I am.” She started back down the path, glanced over at Clarice. “Would you like me to carry that box for a bit? You must get tired of carrying it around.”
“No, thank you—though you are kind to offer.” Clarice looked down and patted the box. “I always keep these writing supplies with me. I never know when something will happen that will fit into an article, or even become one.”
“Such as when I embarrassed myself in front of Dr. Austin?” And Grant Winston. Her stomach sank at the thought, though he’d been most kind and treated her faux pas with humor.
“Exactly! That incident inspired me to go an entirely different direction with my article for the Sunday School Journal. And it will make it ever so much better. Thank you.”
Marissa dipped her head. “You’re very welcome—as long as I remain anonymous.”
“You shall.” Clarice stepped out from the cover of the trees along the path. “Oh, my! Only look at that crowd! How am I ever to make my way to a place by the musicians?”
“How are you ever going to find the musicians?” She stepped close to the trees, out of the way of the people coming off the path, and stared in amazement at the land on their right. People surrounded the striped canopy that had been erected at the edge of the lake, and from the canopy to the trees at the base of the hill there was no land visible, only people. Most of them were seated on the ground. Those coming were milling about, looking for a place to sit. The blend of their voices as they chatted with one another put her in mind of a swarm of bees.
“Well, I’d best hurry. Dusk is falling and the concert will be starting soon.” Clarice looked at her. “Are you coming?”
“Not I!” She smiled and gave a fake shudder. “You shall have to brave that crowd by yourself. I will listen to the music from over there—” she gestured to the empty shore on the other side of the path “—in solitude.”
“Coward.” Clarice clutched her box tight to her chest. “I’ll see you at the tent if I survive!”
* * *
Grant glanced over his shoulder again. People were still streaming by on the path outside. Something was drawing them. Perhaps this was the opportunity for the “chance” meeting with Marissa he’d been thinking about. He slipped off the bench and stepped out from under the canopy making as little disturbance as possible. He’d already lost track of the experiment, but it didn’t pertain to farming anyway. There was nothing in today’s session that would help him with
