An Unlikely Love. Dorothy Clark
I’m meeting someone.” I hope. He shot the tavern owner a questioning look. “How do you know the speaker is a woman?”
“Stands to reason, don’t it? Men are the ones that do the drinking. No women come to my place.”
“That’s true.” He acknowledged the hand John Hirsch raised in farewell, looked at the people overflowing the canopy into the clearing and frowned. Hopefully, he could work his way to a spot where he’d be able to hear the speaker while he searched the attendees for Marissa. Would the subject even interest her? He veered to the right, spotted a space beside an outside support post and edged into it. People crowded in behind him, muttering about being late, about not being able to get closer to the speaker.
He scanned the profiles of those seated under the canopy looking toward the platform at the front. There was no beautiful face with a pert nose and a small determined chin in sight. A grin tugged his lips into a slanted line. She’d jutted that chin at him like a weapon last night. Marissa Bradley had spunk to spare. He liked that. He’d never cared for coy, simpering women.
The desire to see her strengthened. He glanced over the crowd again. If she wasn’t here, he didn’t know where to look for her, beyond the vague “top of the hill” direction she’d thrown at him in her anger. Ah! She could be sitting up by the platform with Miss Gordon. He frowned and glanced over his shoulder. If he could get through those who were vying for position behind him, he could make his way to where he could see the faces of the people seated on the front benches. He inched around the post, glanced toward the front and froze, stared at the slender, black-garbed woman on the stage. Marissa? Shock held him rooted in place. He fastened his gaze on her face, strained to hear what she was saying over the rustle and bustle of the other latecomers seeking a place to stand.
“I am not telling you anything you do not already know. We are gathered here from many different cities and towns in many different states. Think of your hometown. How many churches are there? How many taverns where strong drink is sold? In most towns, for every minister there are three or four or more barkeepers, and while churches meet, at most, a few days a week, the taverns and bars and men’s clubs sell their products of destruction all the days of the week.”
There was a murmur of agreement from many around him. But it had always been so. He scanned the nearby faces. If Marissa’s aim as a temperance speaker was to plant seeds of discontent among those listening, she was doing a good job.
“And what happens inside those shops? The proprietor tucks the coins offered into his till and gives the patrons drinks that numb their brains and dull their senses. When the patrons go home to those who love them above all others, their drunken state causes them to inflict pain with their words and their hands. The same is true of those who drink only in their homes. And though I am aware that not all who drink to excess turn mean or abusive, they still inflict pain and shame upon their family by their very state.”
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