Daddy's Little Matchmaker

by Roz Denny Fox

  “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 sa
me 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.

  From there, he stopped to pick up groceries for Birdie. He dragged out the trip because he wanted to avoid hearing Vestal fuss at him to apologize to the Ashline woman.

  As well as that aggravation, Hardy Duff, his distillery manager, had been pressuring Alan to do something about Bell Hill. So he swung by the courthouse to have a clerk trace its history—to figure out how they’d lost what had once been part and parcel of Ridge land. Everything seemed to be in order, up to when Hazel filed squatter’s rights. Alan didn’t know what else to do. He’d left a note to that effect in Dale Patton’s office, even though Dale, the company attorney, was on vacation.

  Following that, Alan decided to get his hair cut prior to moseying over to Saxon’s Flowers. Finally, when he hit the very end of his to-do list, the only thing left was to order a damn bouquet for the disagreeable Ms. Ashline.

  Even worse, Eva Saxon was like the town crier. Alan suspected that seconds after he walked out of her shop, everyone in town would know he’d sent a strange woman flowers. As he approached the store, he had a brilliant idea. He’d send a bouquet in Vestal’s name.

  Eva Saxon, nearly as wide as she was tall, glanced up as the bell over the door sounded. She was ten years older than Alan’s thirty, and used to baby-sit him. Smiling, she greeted him with the snap-snap-snap of her ever-present Cloves gum.

  “Hi.” Alan fumbled Laurel Ashline’s wrinkled business card out of his jeans pocket, along with a fifty-dollar bill. “This is all the information my grandmother has on the woman. She said you shouldn’t have any problem finding her and delivering a plant or something. Enclose a note saying that Vestal invites Ms. Ashline to drop by Windridge at her convenience, or something to that effect. Oh, you’d better include our address. I believe she’s new in town.” He shoved the money across the counter.

  Eva dug a pencil out of her beehive hairdo. For as long as Alan could remember, she’d worn her hair in the exact same style, and yet it still astonished him. As he gaped at her big hair, he noticed Eva eyeing him oddly. “Is something wrong?”

  Crack went the gum. “Uh, no. ’Cept Vestal phoned a few days ago and ordered a deluxe basket of fruit sent to Ms. Ashline on your behalf. I helped her compose a real sincere apology. If you haven’t heard back by now, hon, I’ve gotta say you must’ve really done the lady wrong.” She stuffed the fifty in her cash register and counted out change. “The basket cost twenty-five dollars.”

  “What?” Alan saw red, and it wasn’t just Eva’s hair color.

  “I suggested a dozen roses instead of fruit. Or a box of chocolates displayed prominently on top of the fruit. Vestal nixed both.” Eva shoved Alan’s change toward him. “It’s probably not too late for roses. ’Course, I don’t know what you did to the woman. But I got some nice pink buds in today. Shall I carry Laurel out a dozen this afternoon? Is she worth another twenty-five bucks?” Eva kept a hand on the last bill.

  “I haven’t got the foggiest idea what she’s worth. I’ve never met her.” Alan wadded up the change and stuffed it in his pants pocket. He retrieved Laurel’s business card, then started for the door. Then he hesitated and pivoted back. “Hell, Eva, stick a few of those roses in a nice vase. Write her address on the back of this card. I’ll deliver the flowers myself.”

  “Uh-huh. You made her mad, but you don’t even know where she lives?” Reaching into the cooler that sat behind the counter, she hauled out an already made up arrangement. “That’ll be six ninety-five. A bargain, even for self-delivery. These buds are beauties. Out of curiosity, what did you do to the lady that requires flowers?”

  Alan flung down a ten, muttering, “Keep the change.” He snatched up the vase. “For the record, I never have met Ms. Ashline, so don’t be spreading rumors, okay?”

  The pale blue eyes regarded him frostily. “But Vestal said—”

  “Yes, she’s got a bee in her bonnet. This need for me to apologize is due to a mess of Grandmother’s creation. I’m caught in the middle. You know Vestal’s been ill? Ms. Ashline’s someone she met at the hospital.”

  Eva frowned slightly. “Vestal didn’t sound dotty. But I s�
��pose she is gettin’ on in years. Ralph’s mama’s not as old as your grandma, and that woman’s plumb gone off the deep end.” Launching a diatribe against her mother-in-law, Eva followed Alan to the door.

  “Thanks,” he said, all but running from the shop. Alan didn’t stop to study the address until he was in the Jeep and had the motor running. Then his jaw dropped.

  Laurel Ashline lived in Hazel Bell’s old cottage. The first of two tucked deep in a grove of sycamore and red maple trees—a scant few miles from the source of the spring gushing down Bell Hill. That spring was at the core of Alan’s current problem. Hardy Duff insisted they had to tap into it in order to expand Windridge; he wanted to add a hundred new mash barrels per each milling process.

  Alan was well aware that the water they used, rich with essential minerals and naturally filtered through Kentucky limestone, made Windridge bourbon one of the most sought-after whiskeys in the world. What he didn’t know was how Laurel Ashline had ended up living next to a coveted stream that really belonged to him and his family.

  Alan might not know, but he intended to find out. With or without an offering of fruit or roses, he thought, wedging the vase between the passenger seat and his center console.

  He fumed to himself all the way from town, taking a shortcut fire road that bisected his property from the Bells’ land. What they claimed was their land. He made the mental correction as he got out to open a gate posted with a Private Property—Keep Out sign. For the first time, he wondered if his grandmother knew the Ashline woman had settled in quarters they owned. Well, maybe owned. He revised that thought, too. According to the clerk he’d spoken with earlier, Hazel Bell hadn’t done anything illegal.