Daddy's Little Matchmaker

by Roz Denny Fox

  “Girls are fickle, Alan. Sarah may not know how to handle what’s happened to Louemma. Maybe its her way of coping. Your friends haven’t all known how to act, either. Shoot, most of them don’t know what to say or whether to even mention Emily. These are just kids. Go a little easy on them.”

  “I’ll try. But I’m not letting Louemma ride out to Bell Hill next week with Charity, and that’s final. It’s not that I think she’s a bad driver. She’s probably fine. But Emily drove fine, too.” He brooded for a minute, staring into his water bottle. “Anyway, hauling Louemma and her wheelchair across the footbridge needs a man’s strength. Did I tell you that Ms. Ashline has a ferocious watchdog? Oh, and horses. You know how hysterical Louemma got over our horses when she came home from the hospital. How will she react to a yapping dog?”

  Vestal rose. “It sounds as if you’re making a laundry list of excuses so you can avoid the next Camp Fire meeting yourself. Is this really about all the things you just brought up? Or do you plain dislike Laurel Ashline?”

  “She’s pushy. And takes independence to extremes.”

  “Hmm. I thought she was attractive and quite gracious. With a smoky voice that reminded me of a young Lauren Bacall. But you know how I love Bogie and Bacall’s old movies,” she said, absently straightening papers on Alan’s cluttered desk.

  “Don’t organize my controlled mess,” he said testily, setting his plastic bottle atop a particularly precarious stack of shipping orders.

  “Laurel or something else really rattled you today. It isn’t like you to snap, Alan. I’ve always said you were the most even-tempered of all the Ridge men. Unless…” She paused. “Unless it wasn’t her at all. Maybe it had to do with being in Charity and Pete’s house again—without Emily.”

  “Vestal, why are you bent on giving me a hard time?”

  “I’m not. I know what’s it’s like to lose the other half of your heart.”

  As if noting how Alan stiffened, Vestal sighed, stood and glided quietly from the room. Over her shoulder, she called, “Dinner’s at seven, remember? Birdie’s fixed chicken and dumplings.”

  Alan grunted a reply, crushing the thin plastic of the water bottle. Instead of getting straight to work as he’d planned, he moved restlessly back to the picture window and stood silently evaluating empty rows of paddocks and bluegrass growing too tall inside unused corrals.

  Perhaps his grandmother was unaware of the strains within his and Emily’s marriage. Probably just as well. He never wanted Vestal or Louemma to know the full extent of the questions raised by the police who’d investigated the accident. The note Emily had left on their dresser for him to find had said she and Louemma were spending a week in Louisville shopping for school clothes.

  The police had asked a million times why, if Emily had gone on a shopping spree, so many suitcases brimming with clothes were packed in the trunk of her Mercedes. And why she had left Alan a note instead of simply calling the distillery to apprise him of her plans. There’d been plenty of whispers floating around at the funeral, too. Thankfully, Louemma hadn’t been well enough to attend. Alan wished he really knew why a woman he’d known all his life and lived with for a lot of years would ruthlessly run off with the one thing they both loved more than life itself. Except he knew, deep down, that Emily felt they were in competition for Louemma’s affections.

  Was he afraid of the truth? Was that the real reason he hadn’t wanted to rekindle old friendships, like the one he and Emily had shared with the Madisons? Alan didn’t want Louemma’s memories of her mother ever to be marred by unsubstantiated hearsay. And if that meant forgoing social pleasures, so be it.

  JUST BEFORE THE SECOND Camp Fire meeting, Laurel had to ready the loom cottage for the invasion of children. A long bench set with hand looms and plenty of chairs were already in place. Her grandmother had given lessons, but not to women from Ridge City. Laurel was unsure why.

  She’d been prevented from attending Hazel’s funeral by the most serious of Dennis’s drinking binges. An attorney had sent her the sympathy cards collected by the funeral home. Several women from a nearby town had spoken fondly of the hours they’d spent at Hazel’s, learning how to weave.

  If anything had given Laurel the impetus to sever the bonds of a marriage she’d tried so hard to hold together, it was the fact that Dennis had found and destroyed those cards, plus a letter from the attorney saying Hazel had wanted Laurel to attend her funeral without her husband. That had sent Dennis into an uncontrolled rage. He’d been drinking a lot in the weeks before. But the cards and the letter had set him off. His anger had apparently made him crazy—so crazy he’d smashed her loom and her spinning wheel and cut up finished products that would’ve kept a roof over their heads for another month. For the first time in their marriage, Dennis had raised his hand and struck Laurel, so hard she fell, bruising her cheek and her shoulder.

  That was the end. Up to then she’d maintained the marriage. She’d kept a spotless house. Had paid bills on the sly so he wouldn’t feel emasculated. And she’d accepted his hat-in-hand apologies time after time. But he’d never hit her before.

  She was just sorry that it took her grandmother’s death to give her the strength and the means to stand up and walk away. Hazel had offered a ticket out more than once, and Laurel had always refused. Not a day passed that she didn’t wish she’d come sooner. Now she could only hope her grandmother was looking down to see how much this place meant to her. “Well, Dog, we’re as ready for them as I guess we’ll ever be.”

  He raised his head from his paws. Then he jumped up and loped to the door, running back to Laurel, then to the door again, barking loudly.

  “It’s okay, boy. There’s no one in this group I need protecting from.” But because she wasn’t sure how he might act around noisy kids, Laurel snapped a leash to his collar. Together they followed the winding creek down to the footbridge.

  She stopped short of the bridge, realizing Charity Madison hadn’t brought all five girls. Alan Ridge’s Jeep had pulled in behind.

  “Maybe I do need protecting,” she murmured to her pet. But even as the words left her lips, she chided herself for such silliness. She hadn’t met a soul in town who didn’t speak highly of the man. She didn’t need twenty-twenty vision to see he was a doting father. And by all reports, cared for his grandmother.

  So why did she get squirmy merely watching him climb from his Jeep? Maybe because she liked the way he looked in his tight blue jeans and open-throated white shirt. Laurel frowned. It wasn’t like her to swoon over a man’s looks. Yet there was a definite shift in her equilibrium.

  Dog growled deep in his chest and didn’t let up.

  “Hush. I know you recognize him. He’s not bringing flowers this time, but he will be carrying his little girl. She’s fragile, Dog, so if you don’t want to be shut in the house for the next hour, start making them feel welcome.”

  As if he understood, the animal dropped to his belly at Laurel’s feet. And as the children trooped across the wooden bridge, he woofed softly, letting his tongue loll out the side of his mouth as the girls gathered around, lavishing attention on him.

  “Big change in that animal between now and the last time we met,” Alan said in a husky voice. He held Louemma aloft and pushed her empty wheelchair.

  Laurel, who kept an eye out for any adverse reaction from his child, ignored Alan’s remarks. “This is Dog,” she announced. “Don’t let his size or bark fool you into thinking he’s mean. He might look fierce, but he’s a big gooey marshmallow inside.”

  All the girls laughed.

  “Hey, you have horses,” Jenny exclaimed excitedly. She’d raced ahead up the trail on her own. “Cool. After you show us how to spin thread, can we take turns riding the horses around the yard?”

  Laurel caught the panicked expression on Louemma’s face. The girl’s thin chest rose and fell fast, as though her heart might leap out through her flowered T-shirt. Laurel recalled hearing someone in town say that before her ac
cident, Emily Ridge had been an accomplished rider who owned a stableful of Thoroughbreds. Then, shortly after Alan had brought Louemma home from the hospital, he’d sold every one of his wife’s prize horses.

  At the time, Laurel supposed an anguished man had no time to bother with the care and feeding of high-strung animals. Now she wondered if Louemma’s obvious panic had been the catalyst for Alan’s behavior.

  Not that it was any of her business. “The horses are penned,” she told the frightened girl.

  Charity Madison solved the dilemma, saying, “Jenny, you kids aren’t here to ride but to observe spinning. Head on up the path. Look, you can see the cottage roof peeking through the oak leaves.”

  Four jabbering girls raced away, all wanting to reach the cottage first. Their noisy departure scattered the horses and sent them galloping for the far side of the corral. Once they were out of sight, Louemma relaxed again.

  Charity kept pace with Alan. Laurel took care to stay between him and the fence. She forgot to tighten her hold on Dog’s leash until she heard a giggle.

  “Daddy, the dog licked my ankle,” Louemma said, trying to bend so she could see. It was impossible, as she couldn’t move her shoulders.

  “Oops, sorry, Louemma. Dog didn’t hurt you, did he?” Laurel shortened the leash enough to pull her pet away.

  “Last year my teacher said dogs only lick people they like. I think he likes me. Why do you call him Dog, Ms. Ashline? Doesn’t he have a name?”

  Laurel wasn’t about to admit in front of Alan, the reservations she’d felt about ever again becoming more than superficially attached to any living thing. That left an awkward, empty minute. “Dog is his name.”

  Alan observed the range of emotions that skipped across Laurel’s face. Up close, he found her undeniably attractive. Well-acquainted with pain, he recognized the stark emotion visible only for an instant, and it prompted him to say, “Honey, we’ve talked about strays that get left at shelters. Folks who work there don’t name them, so they won’t feel bad when someone adopts them and they have to say goodbye.”

  “Oh. But he’s found a home. He should have a real name now, shouldn’t he?”

  “Louemma, it’s not for us to decide.” Alan set her in the chair and proceeded up the path at a slower pace, letting the two women lead the way.

  Laurel was happy to see he’d effectively put an end to the topic. However, she’d never have guessed a child’s silent accusation would bring her so much guilt. After all, Dog answered to his name.

  Midway up the rocky incline, Alan saw where they were headed. He forged ahead to better view the cabin. It was smaller and more weathered than the one below. A narrow porch had wisteria vines crawling up and over the roof. He liked how the cottage blended with the treed hillside.

  Laurel brushed past Charity, Alan and the chattering girls to go unlock the door. She created a small breeze that carried a fresh scent. Apple blossom, Alan thought, feeling an unexpected punch to his gut. It wasn’t until then that he realized how much he missed smelling traces of Emily’s bath powder or perfumes in their bedroom. Friends had come in while he was at the hospital with Louemma and cleaned out Emily’s closet and dresser. He’d been thankful—then.

  Laurel waited at the door, directing everyone to chairs as they came in. Alan took a good look at her as he wheeled Louemma inside the cool room. Today, her hair was pulled back from her oval face and tied with a colorful band she’d probably woven herself. It required a huge effort on his part not to lean closer to her and take another whiff.

  He almost smiled, imagining what her reaction would be if he followed up on his desire. She’d probably coldcock him with one of the two paddle things she’d just picked up. Both had wire teeth on one side, and either would make a good weapon.

  “These are wool cards,” she announced, wasting no time beginning the day’s lesson. “Living in farm country, you girls have probably seen sheepshearing.” Laurel held up a box filled with piles of dirty wool. “This is newly sheared wool. Here’s what it looks like after washing. Washing removes all the natural oils, so before carding and spinning, I have to add enough oil to make the fibers cling together.” She demonstrated the process. And she let each girl try the carding paddles.

  “Ooh, this is harder than it looks,” Jenny exclaimed. “Wool is sticky.”

  While the other girls were making similar exclamations, Laurel rounded the long table and knelt beside Louemma.

  Alan tensed and started to leave the chair he’d taken at the back of the room. Then he heard Laurel say, “I’m going to put your hand in mine so you can feel how soft washed wool is, Louemma. Will that be all right?”

  “Yes, please, I’d like that,” the girl murmured in wonderment.

  Dog rose from where he’d flopped in front of the door. He trotted up to Laurel, and Alan’s nerves jerked spasmodically. But she handled the animal’s approach in the same quiet manner she handled everything else.

  “Look who’s come to investigate,” she told Louemma. “Dog’s fur is even softer. Here, feel.” For just a second, Laurel cupped Louemma’s hand and let their joined fingers rest between the shepherd’s pointed ears.

  Alan couldn’t see his daughter’s response, but Laurel smiled and a pleased light flickered in her hazel eyes. That alone lessened his mounting tension. He settled back in the wicker chair, his attitude markedly warmer.

  Laurel repeated the process with cotton bolls, moving along the table to show each girl the black seeds that had to be removed before the cotton could be turned into thread.

  “I have three sizes of spinning wheels. Anyone who’d like to may try each one. Notice that a spinner has to stand all the time to operate the big wheel. Watch how I walk three steps forward and three steps back, developing a rhythmic motion.”

  “I’m next after Jenny,” Sarah announced, shoving her way between Jenny and Brenna. “Louemma,” the girl said, looking down at her former friend. “Cripples like you can forget about the spinning wheel.”

  Sarah’s mother looked aghast but also helpless. Alan rose immediately, intent on defending his child.

  Laurel waved him away. “Sarah,” she said mildly, “one of my teachers, an award-winning weaver, I might add, was a victim of polio. She had the use of only one arm, and her upper body was quite twisted. I’d like everyone to look at this sampler of hers I have hanging on the wall. It’s ‘Wheels of the Western World.’” Laurel went to stand next to an intricate piece woven in blue, tan and creamy thread. The circles within patterned squares were perfectly round and evenly spaced.

  “Did my friend face more challenges than I can even imagine to complete such a weaving? Yes. But the point is, she overcame her handicap.”

  Sarah got the message, but she clearly didn’t like it. Tossing her light golden curls, she pulled Maggie out of the circle to go look at work hung on the opposite wall. Charity joined the girls, and Laurel soon heard her low, urgent voice laying down the law.

  Laurel moved on with the class, showing her students how to operate each wheel. Jenny and Brenna both learned quickly. Maggie would’ve done better if Sarah hadn’t kept distracting her.

  “I’m bored,” Sarah whined for the fifth time in an hour.

  “Ms. Ashline, my mom said I could ask what you charge for lessons,” Jenny said to Laurel, who was inspecting Jenny’s finished mug mat.

  Before they arrived, Laurel had laced a loom for each child. She’d included one for Louemma, hoping to see some interest. But after Sarah’s unkind remarks, the injured girl had understandably withdrawn.

  Feeling terrible, Laurel made a point of going to sit next to Louemma. She included the girl in dialogue as she wove her a mat. It seemed only fair that each girl have something tangible to take home. But now Laurel was faced with the possibility of repeating this tension-filled day.

  “Jenny, I haven’t scheduled private lessons. Nothing beyond my volunteer therapy at the hospital, that is. Next month I’ll be demonstrating for the first week of t
he trade and craft fair at Boonesborough.”

  “Brenna and I want lessons. We wanna make stuff. Christmas gifts.”

  “I have brochures from the Little Loom House in Louisville. They offer lessons. It’s a drive, I know, but perhaps they have Saturday classes.”

  Getting up, Charity came to the table. “You have so many desktop looms, Laurel. Couldn’t you spare an hour a week to teach the girls? At least between now and Christmas?” she added, gently pressuring her with a winsome smile.

  “It’s barely April. That’s a lot of time to commit.” Frankly, the undercurrents running through this particular group gave Laurel pause.

  Charity solved one big issue. “Weaving doesn’t seem to be Sarah’s forte. And probably not Maggie’s. But Jenny and Brenna are certainly serious.” It didn’t seem to occur to Charity that she’d thoughtlessly left Louemma out of the equation. However, Alan Ridge and his daughter were very much on Laurel’s mind. She aimed a worried glance his way. He appeared fully prepared to pack Louemma up this minute and take her home.

  “That cuts your class by three-fifths,” he said firmly, leaving little doubt as to the likelihood that he’d let Louemma join a class.

  Laurel would hate to say she was relieved, but in a way she was. Not because she didn’t want to expend time and energy to help Louemma, but because Alan made her nervous. Nervous and off-kilter.

  As she’d done after the previous session, Louemma spoke up. “I want to have lessons, too, Daddy.”

  Sarah glanced over, laughed and started to comment. A pointed nudge from her mother brought an abrupt silence.

  Laurel decided there was no sense widening the rift between the girls, especially when she could tell that Alan would deny Louemma’s wishes.

  It didn’t happen. He looked exasperated, and damn the man, he caved in again. “I guess you can set up a class for three,” he said gruffly, apparently assuming his decision on the matter automatically made the class a done deal.