Читать книгу Daddy's Little Matchmaker - Roz Fox Denny - Страница 7

A NOISE AT THE DOOR made Laurel Ashline glance up. She was working with Donald Baird, an elderly stroke victim, teaching him to operate a hand loom. The woman who stood in the doorway was someone Laurel didn’t know. Laurel was fairly new to Ridge City, Kentucky, and had recently become a volunteer occupational therapist here at the local hospital.

The white-haired woman wore a dusty-rose chenille robe and matching slippers. She seemed unsure about crossing the threshold.

“Hello.” Laurel offered a warm smile. “Are you here for weaving therapy? I wasn’t told to expect a new student, but if you’ll take a seat I’ll run out to my car to get another loom. I’m sure your chart will catch up eventually. They always do.”

“Oh, I’m not here for therapy. I’m practically recovered from a touch of pneumonia, although my doctor and I don’t see eye to eye about my going home today.” The woman sighed. “In fact, he ordered me to spend the afternoon in the sunroom. Said he’ll decide later if I have to eat hospital food again tonight.” Her droll expression spoke eloquently about her opinion of hospital fare.

“I see. Well, the sunroom is at the end of this hall.” Laurel pointed.

“I know, dear. I just couldn’t help noticing how you have my friend pulling that bar toward him with both hands.”

The man in question stopped a painstaking quest to thread the shuttle in and out between thick rag strips. “Vestal? Howdy.” He had to peer around Laurel to see the woman. “It’s sad when a tough old duck like me is reduced to making pot holders. This is woman’s work,” he said, although his disgust seemed exaggerated.

“Nothing of the sort,” Laurel quickly interjected. “Weaving’s a time-honored craft anyone can feel good about. All the better if working a loom allows you greater arm and wrist mobility. Isn’t getting well your primary goal?”

“You tell that old coot—uh—sorry, I don’t know your name,” the patient lingering by the door said, gazing at Laurel from faded blue eyes.

“It’s Laurel. Laurel Ashline. And you’re—?”

Her gaze still on what Donald Baird was doing, the elderly woman moved in for a closer look. “Is this type of therapy successful for all upper-body disabilities?”

Laurel hesitated. At twenty-nine, she was a master weaver, not a certified occupational therapist. “I don’t know about all disabilities. But it’s an old technique, one that gained respect and popularity with orthopedic physicians after World War Two. Lou Tate, a weaver from Louisville, was the first to use desktop looms to help partial amputees and other maimed soldiers. There’s a wonderfully soothing quality connected to the repetitious motion of working a beater bar. The exercise develops tone in atrophied muscles.” Laurel might have expounded further on a subject near to her heart, but a nurse appeared to escort the inquisitive stranger away.

“Goodbye,” Laurel called belatedly. “Good luck getting sprung by suppertime.” Her conspiratorial grin was answered in kind as the departing woman glanced back over one shoulder.

Laurel set to work again shuffling between the three people currently in her program. During the course of the day, the stranger faded from mind. Laurel maintained a hectic schedule. As well as volunteering at the hospital, she wove in cotton, wool and chenille. But her specialty was fine linen tablecloths and napkins.

When she’d first come to Ridge City, she’d been reclusive, hiding out to nurse her deep wounds from a bad marriage—until she decided it was time to take back her life. Now she had an ever-widening circle of private clients, plus she’d renewed a project her grandmother had begun—the collection and preservation of old mountain weaving patterns. Laurel found it was an endeavor that was both worthwhile and enjoyable; it was also a way to honor her grandmother’s memory. Added to that, she taught weaving at a community college two days a week. And a few weeks ago, she’d been approached to demonstrate at local clubs. Her schedule kept her almost constantly busy. Laurel needed that, because it meant she had fewer hours at home where Dennis Shaw, her alcoholic ex, might call and harass her. He paid no attention to restraining orders issued in Vermont and in Kentucky.

As Laurel finished up at the hospital and loaded her car, her thoughts were already on her next project.

ALAN RIDGE, current CEO of the once wholly family-owned Windridge Distillery, stood and quickly closed out a spreadsheet displayed on his home-office computer. He smiled faintly as he listened over the speakerphone to his grandmother, who ordered him to drop everything and come get her from the hospital. She’d vehemently resisted going there at all.

Vestal still spoke to him in the autocratic manner she had when he was a boy. But though he was thirty now, Alan didn’t mind. He was deeply concerned about his grandmother’s failing health. He didn’t think he could bear yet another loss.

Ending the call, Alan snatched a jacket from the hall coat-rack. Spring evenings in Kentucky could be quite chilly after the sun set. “Birdie, Grandmother’s coming home. Louemma’s napping,” Alan called, by way of requesting that Birdie Jepson, the Ridge family’s cook and housekeeper, keep an eye on his nine-year-old daughter.

She came out of the kitchen as Alan gathered up a lap robe to tuck around his grandmother.

“I do declare, Mr. Alan, that child’s gonna sleep her life away. What did that new doctor have to say yesterday? Did he have any good ideas?”

“She. Dr. Meyers is a female neuro-orthopedic specialist.” Alan felt his smile disappear altogether. “All the specialists say the same thing, Birdie. Medically, Louemma’s back surgery was a success. Every doctor I’ve consulted believes her problems are psychological. Except the psychiatrists haven’t helped. The last one claimed she’s just spoiled. I do indulge her. But…for pity’s sake, she lost her mother in a car wreck that’s left her…” Alan hated to say the damning word—paralyzed. “I know she’d move her arms if she could.”

“There, there. I reckon the good Lord will heal the poor baby in time. We’re all just so anxious to see her bouncing around like she did before the accident.”

“God’s certainly taking his time, Birdie. Come March fifteenth, which is next Monday, it’ll be a full year.” Alan rubbed a hand over a perpetually haggard face.

“That long? I guess it’s been at that. Doesn’t seem but yesterday I moved in, instead of popping in and out to cook for Miss Emily’s parties. You and Miss Vestal must feel like it’s been eons since that hellish phone call from the state police.”

Alan felt the pain always. Life at Windridge had been topsy-turvy since that call telling him his wife had been killed and his daughter injured in a senseless crash. Everything had changed then.

“Well, you’d best go collect Miss Vestal. If I know her, she’ll be pacing at the hospital door. Tell her I made buttermilk pie. For Miss Louemma, but Miss Vestal don’t need to know that.”

Alan’s smile returned briefly. “Talk about spoiling, Birdie. I’m pointing Louemma’s next psychiatrist straight at you. And Grandmother. That last shrink said we were all enablers.”

“We don’t know how to be anything else, Mr. Alan. Just tell that grouchy old doctor it’s ’cause we all love Louemma to bits.”

He laughed outright at her comment. Laughter seemed to be the only way they could deal with the parade of doctors, most spouting either useless or contradictory diagnoses, who’d become commonplace in their lives.

Out of habit, Alan detoured past his daughter’s room. Tiptoeing into the shuttered bedroom, he gazed lovingly down on sleep-flushed cheeks and pillow-tousled curls. The poor kid had a cowlick just like his, at the hairline above her left eyebrow. His wife had cursed that cowlick—and Alan for passing it on to Louemma.

Alan’s fingers gently skimmed the dark-blond hair. Backing quietly from the pink room that lacked nothing in the way of girlish accoutrements, he sighed and shifted the lap robe to his other arm as he dug out the keys to the car Vestal preferred over his more serviceable Jeep. Her baby-blue Chrysler New Yorker wasn’t Alan’s kind of car, and it rarely got driven. In her late seventies, Vestal Ridge had been so shaken by Emily’s accident she rarely drove now. Only on occasion, and then only back and forth to town.

Alan liked his four-wheel drive. Outside of visiting a myriad of doctors, his trips, consisted mainly of dashing between the house and the distillery, built a mile uphill on the vast family estate. The road was often muddy, especially in spring. Since 1860, a Ridge had owned the three hundred and sixty acres that made up Windridge. In all that time, the estate had remained virtually unchanged. With the exception of forty acres, Alan recalled with a scowl. Lord knew he wished he could forget the pie-shaped wedge sliced from their eastern border. Jason Ridge, Alan’s grandfather, had let that parcel slip out of the family’s hands before his death. And no one apparently knew how or why.

On the way to the hospital, Alan thought about the fact that his plant manager and board of directors wanted that wedge back. Considering how much work had piled up while Alan was taking Louemma to the most recent doctor, he hadn’t yet found time to delve into old county records to determine any options regarding Bell Hill. In the distillery safe, he’d found the land grant that deeded the entire parcel to the first Ridge to settle there. Written on parchment and signed by Daniel Boone himself, the document ought to prove ownership. Although Boone’s fort and settlement, rebuilt and now run by local artisans, had long since been incorporated into Fort Boonesborough State Park. So many local families had sold and moved out. Alan liked that sense of permanence. If it’d been up to him, he wouldn’t have incorporated Windridge Distillery, but kept it strictly a family-owned company.

Not wanting to think about that, Alan lowered the electric windows on both sides of the Chrysler. Settling his wide shoulders against the leather seat, he inhaled the relaxing scent of wet limestone and loamy soil refreshed by a recent shower. He shoved in a CD of mountain music. Alan’s preferences ran toward bluegrass played on fiddles, dulcimers, harmonicas and other old-time instruments.

Turning off the main road, he drove through the small town his ancestors had founded. In five minutes he reached the hospital he and Vestal had been influential in getting built. Granted, the town hadn’t yet floated a bond to install the newest equipment available. But it was a well-maintained facility, boasting a fine staff.

Birdie had been right. His grandmother was pacing in front of the door. Alan entered the hospital and, crossing the lobby, picked up her suitcase before greeting Vestal with a kiss on her soft, powdered cheek. For as far back as he could remember, she’d smelled like the wild roses that grew up the stone walls ringing the distillery. During certain times of the year they warred with overpowering odors of rye and barley mash used to produce Windridge’s high-grade bourbon.

“Why aren’t you waiting in your room?” he scolded gently. “Doc Fulton wouldn’t be happy to see you standing in a draft.”

“What does that twerp know? I diapered his behind when that boy was knee-high to a chigger.”

Alan grinned. “It’d serve you right if I phoned Marv right now and told him you said that. But if I did, he’d turn you over to Randy Wexler. Then I’d never get you to see a doctor again.”

Vestal latched on to Alan’s arm and maneuvered him out. “Randy Wexler has chickpeas for brains. I’m not trusting my body, old though it may be, to a kid who failed fifth grade. Marvin at least was an A student.”

“Randy knuckled down. According to his credentials from Duke University Med School, he graduated magna cum laude.” Alan opened the heavy car door and helped her in. Before Vestal could object, he wrapped the lap robe around her legs, then tossed her bag in the voluminous trunk. He’d barely slid under the steering wheel when she fixed him with a look Alan knew from experience usually meant trouble.

“I met someone today who can help Louemma.”

Alan jabbed his key in the vicinity of the ignition twice, missing both times. “A doctor? Here?” he asked, clearly excited. “A consultant?”

“Not a doctor. What good have a host of sawbones done my great-granddaughter? No good, that’s what.”

Alan felt the bubble of hope burst. “Oh, not an M.D.” He clung to the belief that a doctor on the cutting edge of a new discovery about muscles and nerves would one day solve Louemma’s inability to raise her arms.

“Hear me out, Alan. I’ve lived many years and I’m not without common sense, you know.”

“I know you’re a dear, smart lady. And you love Louemma. Up to now, though, all the doctors we’ve seen—and these are the very best—claim her dysfunction isn’t physical. That it’s beyond the scope of their expertise.”

“I think the woman I met is an occupational therapist. She’s got Donald Baird using his left arm and moving his fingers. What do you say to that?”

Alan turned his head. “Roy said his dad had severe, permanent damage to his entire left side, because of the stroke.”

“Uh-huh. And today I watched him weave a rag pot holder.”

“Weaving?” Alan snorted. This time he started the car easily.

“Don’t be making pig noises at me, Alan Ridge. Laurel Ashline said doctors recruited weavers during the Second World War to help injured soldiers regain the use of their limbs through learning to operate hand looms. Can it hurt to talk with her? Invite her to Windridge to evaluate Louemma? Short of voodoo, Alan, you’ve hauled that child around the state to every other kind of expert—and quack.”

“Never quacks! Every man or woman I’ve made an appointment with, in or out of the state, has been a licensed practitioner.”

“A ward nurse gave me Ms. Ashline’s business card. She apparently has a studio in the area. Her phone number has our local exchange.” Vestal waved the card under Alan’s nose.

He snatched it out of her hand and shoved it in his shirt pocket. “I’ll think about it,” he muttered. “I’ll ask about her program around town. You say she’s an occupational therapist?”

“I’m not sure of that. She volunteers at the hospital. Dory referred to her as a master weaver.”

“Right…” Alan half snarled under his breath.

“Just phone her is all I ask. If not for Louemma, then to humor me. You know I won’t stop badgering you until you do.”

“Tell me something new, Grandmother.” Alan sighed heavily. “Fine. Tomorrow I’ll put out feelers. That’s my best offer. I’m not about to hand Louemma over to some dingbat. What brought this weaver to Ridge City? Do you know the name Ashline? Who would move here unless they already have roots in the valley?”

“Would you listen to yourself? You’re always telling me times are changing.” Vestal sank back and fell silent for a minute or two. “I have to admit, when she first said her name I had a notion I’d heard it before. But for the life of me, I can’t recall where.” Closing her eyes, Vestal rubbed a creased forehead. “These bouts of senility are the main thing I detest about aging. You just wait, Alan. It’s no fun.”

He immediately picked up a blue-veined hand. “Your dad lived to be ninety. If you take care of yourself, you’ll have a lot of good years left. And you’re far from senile.”

“You’re a good boy. A caring father, too. I’ve got no doubt that you’ll explore every avenue to help Louemma. Including contacting Ms. Ashline.”

“Enough.” Alan dropped her hand. “Flattery won’t work, you know. And I’m hardly a boy. But…it’s no secret I’d step in front of a train if I thought it would help Louemma be normal and happy again. I’ll look into this weaver when I get time.”

Vestal twiddled her thumbs and continued to frown.

ALTHOUGH LOUEMMA HAD missed her great-grandmother, it seemed to Alan that during their first meal together again, the child was especially withdrawn. One reason he didn’t believe her problem was only psychosomatic was that she detested having to be fed like a baby. Their family doctor worried about her weight loss, and she did look terribly thin to Alan. “Honeybee, you love Birdie’s potato soup. Please take a few more sips.”

The child turned her pixie face away from the spoon. “I’m not hungry. You eat, Daddy. Otherwise yours will get cold.”

“With all the times I’ve been called away from the table to handle problems at the distillery, I’ve grown to like cold soup, honey. Hot or cold, it has the same nutritional value.” He waggled the spoon again to coax her.

Vestal adjusted a red bow Birdie had tied in Louemma’s dark hair. “You want to eat, child, otherwise you’ll end up in the hospital like I did. I can tell you from experience that no one lines up for their tasteless meals. Hospital cooks have never heard of spice.” Vestal launched into a funny story about patients on her floor who hid or traded food. She’d always been able to wheedle smiles from Louemma. Tonight, she only managed a tiny one. Eventually the girl ate a bit more, but by then they were all exhausted.

Louemma yawned hugely as Birdie collected the plates. “Daddy, please carry me to bed before you and Nana have dessert.”

It broke Alan’s heart to see his formerly energetic child so listless. The accident had caused too many noticeable changes in her personality. It wasn’t normal for a kid her age to sleep as many hours as she did. No wonder her muscles had lost their tone.

Birdie, who’d come back with the coffeepot and one of her famous buttermilk pies, shook her head. “Your daddy had better take your temperature, missy, if you be turning down this delicious pie I baked special for you and Miss Vestal.” The cook passed it under Louemma’s nose. A fresh scent of vanilla, mixed with the cinnamon dusted lightly on the rich custard filling, wafted through the air.

“I’m sorry, Birdie. I’m just too full.” Louemma turned helpless eyes toward Alan. “And I’m really, really sleepy.” She failed to stifle another yawn.

Vestal yawned as well.

The dinner hour at Windridge had always been set late to allow the men of the house time to tidy up at the end of long workdays. He glanced at his watch and saw it was just ten. Not particularly late by Southern dining standards.

As if Vestal had tapped into his thoughts, she murmured, “If you’re going to continue working from home, Alan, and if it’s agreeable with Birdie, we could move our dinner hour to seven, or even six.”

“We’ve never…” Alan crumpled his snowy linen napkin. Nine had been the tradition as far back as he could remember. But really, what did time matter? The Windridge family hadn’t entertained since…Emily’s death.

“Can we discuss this later?” He shoved back his chair, unclear as to why he hated the idea of altering yet another routine. Since the accident, so many practices had gone by the wayside. His hands-on grasp of the business, for one. The loss of old friends, although these were couples he and Emily had known forever. Even simple laughter seemed a thing of the past. Childish giggles for sure, as no children ran in and out of the big house anymore; playing tag with Louemma. Male-female banter was nonexistent, too. Windridge had become a virtual tomb.

And whose fault is that? a little voice nagged Alan.

His. He hadn’t wanted any overt reminders of Emily’s absence. And somehow, around other kids her age, Louemma’s handicap seemed magnified.

“I’m sorry, Birdie. Unless Grandmother wants pie and coffee, I’m going to pass. I’ll take Louemma to her room,” Alan said, carefully lifting the girl. Louemma suffered intermittent muscle spasms, because of which her doctor had suggested using a wheelchair. “Afterward, I’m going back to the spreadsheets I left unfinished when Grandmother phoned.”

Vestal folded her napkin neatly and set it aside before unhooking an ornate cane from the back of her chair.

Birdie faced them all, hands on her broad hips. “Pie’ll be in the fridge,” she snapped. “I’ll leave a thermos of coffee on the counter. In case that spreadsheet threatens to put you to sleep, Mr. Alan.”

“Birdie, I’m truly sorry. We all appreciate how hard you work.”

“We do indeed,” Vestal assured her. “And the pie will keep. You know, Alan,” she said, “there’s something I missed more than pie during my hospital stay. Our catching up over a nightcap. I believe I’ll wait in your office.”

The reigning Ridge matriarch patted Louemma’s thin face. “Good night, sweet pea. Sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Alan smiled in spite of everything. Vestal had sent him off to bed as a boy with that same admonition. His father had said it’d been their ritual, as well. One thing was different—the way Louemma used to throw her arms around Vestal’s neck, and how girl and woman used to giggle delightedly. That ritual, too, was gone.

Alan escaped then, because it hurt deep inside his chest to be holding his precious child, and feeling her slip away from him in body and spirit, with apparently nothing he nothing he could do to change that.

Hiding the tears stinging his eyes, he dragged out the routine of tucking his daughter in for the night. He was aware, from Vestal’s insistence, that she had something more than a nightcap in mind. Eventually, Alan trudged slowly and heavily down the hall.

Bracing for whatever awaited him, he wiped away all traces of anxiety before entering the room he’d usurped for his office. On top of a desk crafted from local hardwood, aged and polished to a glossy shine, two old-fashioned glasses sat, each holding a splash of Windridge bourbon.

When Vestal picked up one glass and handed him the other, it struck Alan that it’d been she, not his father, who’d taught him how to appreciate the taste of bourbon. His dad had been struck and killed by lightning up at the distillery the year Alan turned thirteen. His grandfather Jason’s health had gone downhill after the loss of his only son. It’d been Vestal, and Alan’s mother, Carolee, who’d plunged him into the business of producing top-grade bourbon.

Their lives had seemed smooth until Alan was twenty or so and Carolee met and married a wine maker from California. At that point she turned her back on Windridge and her only child. She’d looked back once—when she’d signed over to Alan her shares in the corporation she’d set up. She’d sold forty-nine percent of overall shares, pulling the wool over Vestal’s eyes. And Carolee’s brash move had sparked the business with a new influx of cash.

Alan clinked his glass to the rim of Vestal’s, smiling fondly at her as they waited for the chime of the crystal to fade. That was another of her mantras. Fine bourbon should be served in the finest crystal.

“You seem restless tonight, Grandmother. This being your first day home after a lengthy illness, shouldn’t you trundle off to bed?”

The woman sipped the amber liquid with her eyes closed, ignoring his nudge. “I love the barest hint of a woody taste. I assume I can thank our new, ungodly expensive aging barrels. I hope you don’t mind that I broke the seal on a new bottle.”

“Not at all.” The bottles were all carefully filled and corked by hand in a manner that made Windridge a constant favorite of a discerning liquor market.

“Did you want an update on expenses, Grandmother? I can run you a cost analysis worksheet tomorrow.”

“Don’t rush me, Alan. Ever since you were a little boy, you’ve rushed through life hell-bent for election.”

He smiled again at her longstanding version of the cliché, then cleared his throat “I’m just wondering what this is about. Monday, as I pulled into the hospital parking lot, I saw Hardy Duff driving off. You didn’t mention his visit. I figure he must’ve decided the fastest way to get me to move on reacquiring Bell Hill was to go through you.”

“Hardy brought me violets. His neighbor grows them.” Vestal took another sip. “Very well, Alan. But I’m telling you the same thing I told Hardy. Ted Bell saved your grandfather’s life in Korea, and Jason meant for Ted and Hazel to live out their days on the hill. Still, Hazel had no call to go behind our backs and file squatter’s rights. Granted, she and I had a falling out. Didn’t mean I’d ever have tossed her off our land.”

“You, Grandfather and the Bells were once best friends.”

“Yes.” Vestal stared into space. “Relationships can crumble. Hazel had…hobbies that obsessed her. Then she…we…well, we argued after her daughter, Lucy, ran off with that no-account transient tobacco picker your grandfather hired. We hired a lot of transient laborers then. Hazel had no say in hiring or firing.”

“It’s late. Talking about this upsets you. Let’s save it for tomorrow.”

She polished off her drink and set the glass on the tray with a thump. Stretching out slightly arthritic fingers, she pried the business card she’d given Alan earlier out of his shirt pocket. “Bell Hill will solve itself. Louemma, however, is wasting away before our eyes. I want you to promise you’ll call Ms. Ashline first thing in the morning. If it wasn’t so late, I’d insist you phone her now.”

Alan snatched back the card, dropping it next to his phone. “Even though I fail to see how a stranger who doesn’t have a medical degree can be any help, I’ll call the damn woman. Scout’s honor,” he added, seeing Vestal’s arched eyebrow.

“Call it meddling if you will, Alan. Or call it intuition. I saw what she did for Donald Baird and…a feeling swept over me. I’m sure Ms. Ashline’s the one who can help our sweet girl get back to her old self.”

Alan downed the rest of his drink and set his glass beside hers. After walking his grandmother to the door and kissing her cheek, he muttered, “Unless Laurel Ashline is a magician or a witch, I sincerely doubt she can make a difference in Louemma.” He sighed. “Why can’t you knit or travel abroad like other women your age?” But Vestal just gave him one of her famous looks.

Still brooding, he shut the door and picked up a family photo sitting on a bookshelf. A picture of him, Emily and Louemma, the shot had been taken three years ago, on Louemma’s sixth birthday. Alan suspected she’d one day match her mother’s beauty. Maintaining a tight grip on the silver frame, he splashed another three fingers of bourbon into his empty glass, although he’d learned a year ago that drowning his sorrows in whiskey never worked. Not even drowning them in the world’s finest bourbon. Holding the glass to the lamp, he assessed the color and clarity. It was perfect. His daughter wasn’t.

Grimacing, he drank half in one swallow. Still, the subtle burn sliding down his throat couldn’t compare to the constant fire consuming his heart. He gently returned the photo to where he kept it for Louemma’s sake. After draining the glass, Alan stared at his former wife through a sheen of tears brought on by the fiery drink. “Dammit, Emily, I wish you’d reach out from the grave and tell me why in hell you were on a mountain road going to Louisville. Why were you driving on such an icy night? And why did you have Louemma with you?”

In the silence following his questions, Alan knew he couldn’t work on spreadsheets, after all. Not that bed was an answer to his restlessness. As had become habit since the accident, he grabbed a flashlight and an old jacket off a rack in the mudroom near the kitchen. Exiting the house, he tramped up the long hill to the distillery. The solidity of the building’s mossy stone walls had withstood generations of storms worse than the one raging inside him.

Finding that thought vaguely calming, Alan went into the vault and checked alcohol levels in two current batches of yeast-laden mash. Every batch fermented naturally for three to five days. On a chart, Alan made notations under Day Four. Their night watchman was used to his midnight prowling. The two men exchanged waves as Drake Crosby made his rounds.

Roaming familiar floors eventually brought about the desired exhaustion. By the time Alan left the building, again waving to Drake, he thought maybe he could fall into bed and manage two hours of dreamless sleep.

But at seven-thirty, he sat at his desk again.

Laurel Ashline’s business card still lay where he’d tossed it last night, taunting him. He passed a hand over his jaw, rehearsing possible openings in his mind. A prickly jaw reminded him that he hadn’t shaved. Vestal and Louemma were habitually late risers, which gave him plenty of time to get presentable.

Birdie popped into his office carrying a tray. “Mercy, if you don’t look like something dragged in from the woods. Have you been working all night?”

Alan accepted his usual juice and coffee. “No. I’m debating what’s the proper time to phone a lady.”

The cook’s eyes sparked with uncommon interest as she poured the coffee.

“Not that kind of call, Birdie,” he declared dryly, pulling the cup of rich, chicory-laced coffee toward him. “It’s a woman Grandmother met at the hospital. She apparently uses weaving for therapy, or some such nonsense—” Stopping suddenly, Alan vigorously shook his head. “It even sounds far-fetched.”

“I don’t know. Miss Vestal mentioned that weaver while I was fixing supper. Way I look at it, the Almighty arranges for people’s paths to cross for a reason. I’m just gonna scoot on out so you can make that call. Yell if you need the pot refilled.”

“Thanks.” Alan shut his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Why was he thanking her? This household was blessed with stubborn women.

Twice he lifted the receiver and set it down again. The third time he hurriedly punched in the number on the card.

A sleepy female voice ventured a wary “Hello…?”

Something in the low, husky timbre sent shock waves to Alan’s toes. Damn, this wasn’t her office. Clearly, he’d called too early. But now that he had her on the line, Alan was determined to state his case, set an appointment and be done with it. “I apologize for calling before eight,” he said. “This is Alan Ridge. Yesterday, at the hospital, you met my grandmother. Vestal,” he added. Despite the silence, he forged on. “She was impressed by how you’ve helped a friend of hers— Don Baird. Vestal thinks you can do the same for my daughter, Louemma.” Nothing Alan had said thus far had produced so much as an iota of response from the other end.

“So I’m phoning to arrange a consultation with you, Ms. Ashline. What day can you come to my home to evaluate her? My daughter,” he added hastily.

“Ms. Ashline?” he said a long moment later. For all Alan knew she’d dropped the phone and fallen back asleep.

“Yes. I’m here, but… I’m, ah, afraid you…have me at a disadvantage. I was up all night finishing a commissioned weaving. And I suspect your grandmother misjudged my role. Oh, I’m probably not coherent enough to be making any sense.”

A fellow night owl, he thought. “You’re making perfect sense, considering. Look, I’m quite sure you’re right about my grandmother’s incorrect assessment. However, if you knew her, you’d know she won’t stop pestering me until you see my daughter. We’re easy to locate. If you need a personal reference, ask anyone. Our family’s been in Ridge City for years. Drive west along Windy Creek Road, and you can’t miss Windridge. The distillery’s on the knoll, but our house sits closer to the highway. Just name a time and day.”

Laurel had finally managed to sit up and shrug off her stupor enough to process most of what her caller had said. She now knew exactly who he was. Obviously, neither he nor his grandmother had placed her. They couldn’t know she was Hazel Bell’s granddaughter, or else Laurel was certain Alan Ridge wouldn’t have been this pleasant. In any event, his very association with making and selling a product responsible for the ruin of countless people, including her ex-husband, precluded her from getting involved with his family. Besides, it was unlikely she had anything to offer his child.

“No, I won’t come upon your house first,” Laurel said bluntly. “I won’t come to your house at all.”

Hearing the shock in his indrawn breath, she wasn’t quite sure how to end the call. But what else needed saying? Nothing, she decided, and she hung up with a quick but definite goodbye. A solid smack of the phone in the cradle should send him a clear message.

Alan heard the sound, and also the resulting dial tone. Anger ripped through him. “Who in hell does she think she is?” he muttered, belatedly slamming down his receiver.

Vestal poked her head into her grandson’s office. “The news must be bad if you’ve resorted to talking to yourself in that tone of voice, Alan.”

“I just spoke with your Ms. Ashline,” he said with an annoyance. “She refused to come see Louemma. But it’s just as well. I knew she was so much smoke and mirrors.”

“No, she’s not. Phone her again, and be nicer this time.”

“She hung up on me! Not the other way around.”

“Honestly! You do take after your grandfather. Ridge men can be so abrasive. And dense. Mercy, will you look at the time? Who calls a lady at this hour? It’s only quarter of eight!” Vestal tapped the clock on his desk. She sent Alan a look of the type that always left him stumbling to apologize.

“Run into town later and send her flowers or fruit from Saxon’s. Include a business card, and write Ms. Ashline a nice apology on the back. Ask her to phone at her convenience.”

Alan clamped down on the hell, no leaping to the tip of his tongue. Instead, he grumbled, “Can’t, Grandmother. No address on her card.”

“A lack of address has never stopped Eva Saxon from making a delivery. Oh, for pity’s sake. I’ll do it.”

“No, you won’t. The subject of Ms. Ashline is finished.”

But Vestal Ridge had her own stubborn streak. Alan knew he wouldn’t have a moment’s peace unless he appeased her. More than that, he loved her. Still…it felt like groveling. “Give me a week to rethink this, Grandmother. Right now I need to shave before breakfast, and roust Louemma.” And with that, he left the room.

Vestal stared after him for only a moment, then picked up the phone and punched in Eva’s number at the flower shop from memory.