Daddy's Little Matchmaker

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.

CHAPTER TWO

LAUREL TRIED TO GO BACK to sleep, but the early call had left her stomach feeling jittery. At first she’d thought the caller was her ex, Dennis Shaw, phoning again to either insult her or beg money, as was his pattern. He never held a job for long, even though he had the charisma to get a new one each time he sobered up. It was that charm she’d fallen for, even thought she should’ve learned from her mom’s bad experience with men.

Stifling a yawn, Laurel wandered into the kitchen and bent to pat the big German shepherd she’d rescued from the animal shelter. Living alone, so far back in the woods, she’d decided it would be wise to have a fierce companion. At the time she got him, she’d had no heart for loving man or beast. Her intention was to keep the dog at arm’s length, using him strictly as a bodyguard, not a friend. For that reason, she’d simply named him Dog. While the name stuck, little by little he’d worked his way past her defenses—until Laurel couldn’t imagine life without him. Dog looked fierce. She hoped if push came to shove, he could scare off an intruder. But like her, he was a marshmallow inside. And like her, he was both lonely and a loner. Well, less lonely now that they had each other for company.

She missed corresponding with her grandmother. The letters had been her lifeline though tough times. Living here in Hazel’s house, surrounded by her things, Laurel wished now that she hadn’t been cursed with her own mother’s stubborn pride. A pride that had kept them both from coming home to this safe haven for far too many lonely years.

She washed her hands and face, then put water in the kettle for her favorite herb tea. Whenever old memories closed in too tightly, the ritual of making tea generally staved them off.

Today, however, she allowed a few of those memories to seep in. She’d grown up fatherless, taking charge of a chronically ill mother at an early age. Just before her death, Lucy Ashline had sworn to haunt Laurel if she ever dared phone her grandparents. From ages fifteen to eighteen, Laurel had lived like a rabbit in a hole. She’d struggled to make ends meet, and she’d lived on her own, deceiving social workers, going to school.

Then one rainy day she woke up and broke her word to Lucy. Laurel wrote a letter to Hazel Bell, introducing herself—even sending a graduation photo. She’d let Hazel believe her life was rosy.

At first Laurel didn’t tell her grandmother that Lucy had died. Eventually, through letters, she’d gradually opened up. It was also through these letters that Laurel developed an interest in her grandmother’s passion for weaving. Hazel sent money from time to time. Laurel used the funds to apply for an apprenticeship in a weaving program. The instructor said she had a knack, and within a year had recommended her for a master weaver’s apprenticeship in Vermont. Only after Laurel left the last apartment she’d shared with her mother, did she invite Hazel to visit her.

Hazel made excuses. First, she said her husband was ill. Then he died and she didn’t feel like traveling. All the while Hazel begged Laurel to continue corresponding.

Looking back, Laurel knew she’d let Dennis Shaw slip past her defenses because she was so lonely. Lonely, living in a new city in a too-empty little studio apartment.

Dennis was selling yarn when she met him. At the time, Laurel had no idea it was just one in a string of jobs he held on to until he went on a bender and got fired. Sober, he was funny and charming. He’d traveled places Laurel only dreamed of seeing. In the early days of their courtship, he used to sprawl on her couch, easing the emptiness in her life. Dennis had said he loved watching Laurel create the items she sold on consignment. And maybe it was true—then.

They began discussing a future together. They made plans. That was one thing she could say about Dennis: he always made big plans. Not until after she consented to marriage did she slowly learn he was all talk. Any plans they implemented used money she earned. Dennis’s plans all ended in losses Laurel bailed him out of.

Her grandmother sensed her unhappiness, although Laurel never meant to spill it into the pages of her letters. Hazel suggested on more than one occasion that Laurel leave Dennis and come to Kentucky. She’d even offered plane fare, but the same foolish pride that had kept Laurel’s mother from hightailing it home, a failure, also kept Laurel in her mistake of a marriage. Until it was too late.

Unfortunately, it had taken seven years of living in hell, and Hazel’s sudden, surprising death, to pound sense into Laurel, enabling her to overcome that stiff pride of hers. She regretted that it was her grandmother’s last letter, delivered through her attorney, that finally kicked her hard enough in the backside and gave her the funds to divorce Dennis.

Refilling her cup, Laurel called Dog. The two of them went out to enjoy the sun warming the front porch. Here, and in the upper cottage where she did her weaving, the past always faded into obscurity.

A row of window boxes on the porch spilled over with violets and fragrant pinks. Their perfume filled the air with the promise of spring. Winter rains had subsided, and the creek had once again receded below its banks. Laurel loved everything about the cottages, including the fact that no one could drive up and surprise her. A footbridge crossed the creek. Visitors had to park in a clearing on the other side—not that she had any visitors.

Laurel also owned two horses she’d bought about the time she adopted Dog. That was because her grandmother had once written about how she carried on the laudable work begun by another Kentucky weaver. Lou Tate Bousman had devoted her latter years to keeping the art of hand-weaving alive. Both women, during different decades, had traveled the hollows of the Kentucky hill country, collecting and preserving patterns that would otherwise have been lost.

As she went back inside, Laurel reflected on her efforts to carry on the tradition. Last fall, she and Dog had roamed those same hills, she on horseback, he loping beside her. Laurel had met some fantastically talented women, although uneducated by most standards. The beauty of the hollows, and the strength of women who survived under mostly primitive conditions, had helped heal Laurel’s shattered life.

Sort of. She and Dog both tensed at hearing a car heading toward the clearing.

Actually, it was a panel van. Squinting through an ivy-covered lattice that framed one end of the screened porch, Laurel made out the lettering on the side: Saxon’s Flower Shop. Was the driver lost? Unless Dennis had suddenly gotten flush again… But his flush times were growing fewer and further between, and his ability to bounce from job to job lessening. Besides, he’d never waste money on flowers.

A chubby woman with flame-red hair piled high atop her head crawled out of the vehicle. “Hello, the house,” she called. “I have a delivery for Laurel Ashline. Am I in the right place?”

Dog sensed Laurel’s uneasiness. He barked and lunged at the screen door. Silencing him with a word, Laurel ordered him to stay as she stepped outside. Tightening the sash on her robe, she walked to her side of the bridge. How should she respond? She’d never received a flower delivery before. Never. Would the driver expect a tip? Nervously, Laurel smoothed a hand over her shoulder-length, wheat-blond hair. Goodness, she must look a fright, judging by the scrutiny she was getting.

The driver, puffing a bit, crossed the rickety bridge. She lugged a wicker basket wrapped in cellophane.

Wryly, Laurel saw she still wasn’t getting flowers, but rather a fruit basket the woman plopped at her feet.

“Thank you,” Laurel said softly. “I’m sorry to greet you in my robe. I worked all night on a weaving I need to deliver for a bridal shower today. Are, uh, you positive this is mine?”

Bending, the woman unpinned the attached card. “I’m Eva Saxon, owner of the flower shop in Ridge City. If you’re Laurel Ashline, it’s yours.” Eva slid the card out of the envelope and held it up for her to read. “Came from Alan Ridge himself, I’m told—which makes you special. Alan keeps to home these days. Has since his wife died last year in a car crash. Emily was a beauty, she was. A born prom queen. ’Course, she was a lot younger than me. You’re a lucky woman.” Eva nodded sagely. “Alan Ridge is a good catch.”

Laurel stiffened. “I’m sure he is, should a woman be fishing for a man. I am not,” she said loudly. So loudly that Dog began to bark again, throwing himself against the screen. Laurel worried that he’d get hurt or come through the mesh. “Excuse me, my dog is very protective. Thank you again for the delivery. Really, it’s not personal. Mr. Ridge contacted me regarding business. Very early in the morning. It’s totally unnecessary, but he probably sent this by way of an apology for waking me.”

The shorter woman under the mountain of hair nodded as if she understood. As Laurel turned and left the bridge, she, too, retreated.

Once the van had driven off, Laurel let Dog out. He continued to growl so she let him sniff the basket filled with rare fruit—mangos, guavas, pineapples and grapes. Laurel let the van’s dust settle, then marched across the bridge to where she had to keep her garbage can if she wanted the city to empty it. Collectors wouldn’t come until Friday, and it was only Wednesday. Her receptacle was full. Nevertheless, because she didn’t wish to accept anything from a man who made his money off whiskey, she jammed the basket as far into the can as possible. As a result, she had to hang the lid sideways on the basket handle.

“Come, Dog. With luck, that’s the last we’ll hear from Mr. Ridge.”

IT WAS THREE DAYS before Alan made it into town. He had to run by the elementary school to pick up the quarterly lesson packets that Louemma’s tutor used. They’d tried having his daughter attend classes after she’d healed from the initial surgeries, but she’d gotten so upset that in the end he’d decided to have her taught at home—for a while, anyway.