that. It’s a rather poor excuse for a building, but it is made of wood.”
“I see.” She shook out a sheet and spread it over the mattress tick, placed her hand on the surface and felt for the stuffing material. Cornhusks. “And the food?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure of dining at the hotel. I only caught a glimpse of it when my guide showed me where it was located. It’s downhill a short way from here.”
“Everything is downhill from here.” She shot Clarice a wry look, spread the top sheet and reached for a blanket.
“That’s true.” Her tent mate grasped the edge of the blanket, looked up and grinned. “But there is one advantage. Your prayers will have a head start over those offered from below.”
As if that mattered. She smoothed the blanket over her side of the cot then pulled out the pillow she’d jammed into the trunk lid and fluffed the feathers. It was too late for prayers—Lincoln was dead.
* * *
“What do you mean you’re going to this Chautauqua Sunday School Assembly thing? Isn’t going to church on Sunday good enough for you?”
Grant placed his wet shoes on the hearth, looked at his father’s set face and braced himself for a long discussion. “The assembly is not only about church. I went to Fair Point tonight and bought a pass for the entire two weeks.”
“Besides, more church teaching is always a good thing, Andrew.” His mother looked at his father and smiled. “And I’m sure there are a lot of lovely young Christian woman attending the Chautauqua classes.”
Oh-ho. He tugged off his damp socks and glanced over at the settee. His mother always had such a lovely, serene look about her, but there was a she-bear inside her that reared up and charged to his defense whenever his father was displeased about something he said or did. He was her only child and could do no wrong in her sight—with the exception of his not getting married.
He dropped his socks beside his shoes and rushed to defuse her implications. “That’s true, Mother. But it’s the science classes being offered at Chautauqua that interest me. I’m hoping by attending I will learn something that will help me better care for the vines and increase their yield and thus our profits.” A pair of beautiful but sad blue eyes flashed before him. And to satisfy my curiosity about Miss Bradley.
“We’re doing all right.”
His father’s gruff words pulled his thoughts away from the intriguing young woman and focused them on their situation. He shot a glance toward the settee and tempered his response. His mother did not know about the demand note his father had taken against the coming harvest to meet expenses after the killing cold last winter had destroyed so many of the old vines.
“We can always do better.” As the concords prove. He stopped himself from uttering the words aloud and stepped close to the fire to dry his pants legs. “Scientists discover all sorts of new ways to make crops healthier and increase yield.”
His mother rested her needlepoint on her lap and smiled up at him. “I’m sure that’s true, son.”
His father snorted, shook his head. “You’re sure whatever comes out of the boy’s mouth is true, Ruth. If these scientists are so smart, let them figure out a way to control the weather. Now, that would help.”
“Perhaps one day they will.”
His mother’s support of him was automatic. He aimed a smile her way.
His father leaned sideways in his wheelchair, picked up a piece of wood and placed it on his lap, then turned and wheeled himself along the hearth and added the wood to the fire. “This damp gets into a man’s bones and makes them ache. And it’s not good for the grapes, either.” A piercing look accompanied the words. “You need to see to the vineyard, Grant, not go gallivanting off to some science classes that are nothing but a waste of time.”
He let the criticism go. It was his father’s frustration with his own inability to go out into the fields talking. A change of subject was in order before his father became overheated and jeopardized his health. “The stems of the concords are turning woody, but the seeds are still a little green. The full-bodied flavor and sweetness hasn’t quite developed yet, either. I figure to let them hang another three or four days. It’ll be time to start harvesting the south slope then.”
“Sounds about right.” His father nodded, rubbed his knees with his palms then looked up at him. “I’ll send word out to the wineries. The vintners will want to come take a look at the grapes so they can make their bids. We need to give the winner enough warning so he can get his schedule together and hire pickers to harvest the grapes.”
He nodded and glanced toward the window, thought about a solitary figure standing on the steamer’s deck in the rain. Perhaps, if he found Miss Bradley as intriguing as she seemed, he would invite her to join him for a picnic and watch the pickers. “I’ll bring in a few clusters before I go to Fair Point tomorrow and we’ll make our final decision. And you’ve no need to worry. The science classes are scheduled late in the day. I’ll be here to oversee the harvest. And there’s something else...” He reached into his pocket, withdrew the list of lectures being offered and held it out to his father. “This is another reason for my going to the assembly. They are holding a series of lectures on temperance. I plan to attend them.”
“Temperance!” His father snorted, shoved the list away. “A waste of time. Men drink. Always have, always will. You need to spend your time here, tending the vines.”
“There’s nothing to do for the next few days except watch for the grapes to ripen to maturity. I’ll check them every morning.” He turned to dry the front of his pants, frowned down at the fire. “There are a lot of taverns and inns in the surrounding towns and villages, and I’ve no doubt a good many of the owners will attend those lectures. Mix them in with those people in favor of temperance, and it wouldn’t surprise me if there are fireworks that will rival those I’ve heard they’re planning to shoot off on one of the boats in the middle of the lake.” He wiggled his toes against the warm stone beneath them and glanced down at his father. “What’s that old saying... ‘A wise man knows his enemy’? I don’t intend to miss those lectures.”
Grant whistled his way along the path at the top of the low, rolling incline of the vineyard’s south slope. The sun warmed his shoulders, glinted on the knife in his hand and gleamed on the grapes in his basket. It was perfect weather for finishing the ripening of the grapes. And for the opening of the Chautauqua Assembly.
He glanced up, checked the sun’s position in the blue sky and smiled. He had plenty of time to meet with his father, clean up and eat, then ride into town and catch the steamer. The science class was scheduled last in the afternoon. A vision of lovely blue eyes above a pert nose wiped off his smile and furrowed his brow. Where would he find Miss Bradley? It was too much to hope that she was interested in science.
He quickened his steps then turned onto a path between two of the rows of vines that flowed down the gently sloping incline in long, regimented courses. Healthy, hardy vines clung with tenacious tendrils to the strung wire trellises at his sides. He looked left and right, scanning the new vines he was starting between each of the ones he’d planted over the past five years. The new ones would be ready to be replanted in the spring. And there were enough of them that they
